Trust Me, Trust Nobody
by BlueMoonOnTheRise
Summary: Whatever he told Mycroft, John trusted Sherlock almost instantly. When a new case shows up - smattered with the usual thrill of danger, death and cool logic - such trust ends up pushed to its very limits...
1. Chapter 1

**This was meant to be a oneshot – inspired, in part, by The Fray's song **_**Trust Me**_**, a line of which I have taken for the title – but I have now decided that I should try and do a proper full length 'Sherlock' story, after I set myself up rather spectacularly, and completely accidentally, at the end (you'll see what I mean) with what was meant to just be an intriguing ending.**

**However, I do have exams coming up, so I wouldn't expect much until after 21****st**** June, which is when they end. I'd appreciate people's opinions, actually: if you think it's good to end here, then I shall leave it. **

**Not slash, but you could interpret it that way, if you like ;)**

**Enjoy.**

_'You just wrote 'has trust issues'.' 'And you read my writing upside down. Do you see what I mean?'_

'_Could it be that you've decided to trust Sherlock Holmes, of all people?' _

Yes.

He'd spent a good deal of time, more than was really necessary, mulling over those words spoken by Mycroft just a few weeks ago. Sherlock was so much a part of his life, the question seemed silly now, but at the time it had been very significant. No, scratch that. If he was being really honest, Sherlock _was _his life.

John found it hard to understand the incredible amount of hostility directed at the man. True, he was the most arrogant person John knew, and yes, he was far from normal, and he did lack certain social skills like not insulting people – but he was brilliant. John had found he trusted him from the moment he'd deduced his army background. How could you not trust someone that perceptive? He knew the truth better than anyone.

At the same time, he had been a total stranger. A complete stranger, tall and wiry, with an explosion of dark hair and a low tolerance for interruptions. As Mycroft had posed the question, he'd realised that. He knew nothing about him. But he trusted him.

The same could not be said for his brother. Sherlock, he supposed, had gained his trust through a simple but brilliant show of observation, and a certain quality he had that even now John couldn't quite put his finger on. John had always been slightly suspicious of authority figures: there was so much corruption in the governments of the world now – and as such Mycroft had not seemed to him trustworthy. He embodied a lot of things John hated: power, manipulation, and a too neat, too ordered finesse that Sherlock possessed none of.

He glanced over at the subject of his thoughts. Sherlock was leaning back on the sofa, breathing heavily through his nose and tutting every so often in boredom. His bare feet were twitching momentarily too. Even in boredom induced stupor, he possessed that energy that he carried with him everywhere.

John then moved his gaze to the rest of the flat. It was a complete mess. It was mostly Sherlock's things, of course: a jumble of books and paper and files and – oh God was that broken glass – strewn across the floor. His dislike of the unnecessarily ordered only went so far. He did like things to be tidy – a habit, Sherlock would no doubt claim, born from his military days – just not clinically clean and ordered. Clinical was fine in hospitals, where it was needed, but not in everyday life. Tidy was useful, it helped you find things. Sherlock had not grasped this concept. Mycroft had, too much so.

He sighed a little, and got up to make a cup of tea. Perhaps, he mused, the reason he had grown to trust Sherlock so much was because of the life he embodied, followed later by a growing respect, and genuine like, for the man beneath that. Perhaps that had been what had sparked the initial trust.

He glanced back at his flatmate as the water boiled, and smiled. Sherlock had fallen asleep mid grumble, and was lying on his back, mouth slightly open, snoring gently. John chuckled, and put the second cup away. One of Sherlock's arms was hanging off the side of the sofa. He looked almost human.

The doctor was just stirring in the milk, humming softly to himself, when he felt a cold, long fingered hand grasp his shoulder. It was lucky he was past the jumping stage, because otherwise there would have been a major milk spillage, but he was too used to Sherlock by now. He also knew that excited look far too well: his flatmate's face alert despite the huge dark circles under his eyes. John noted, too, Sherlock's unearthly fast dressing, and took a hurried gulp of tea, expecting a quick departure, and scalded his mouth. Sherlock smirked at his stupidity.

"You should sleep," John told him, his voice non-committal. He was as eager as the man beside him to go out chasing the bad guys again, but sometimes, a voice of reason was necessary, if unwelcome.

Sherlock, thankfully, ignored this sensible suggestion, instead choosing to answer by removing the tea from John's grip, and setting it down on the counter. He disappeared then, returning quickly with John's jacket, which he pressed into his hands.

"Sleep?" Sherlock said, grinning. "When there's a string of missing people, and one of the bodies has just been found, with a 'mysterious' symbol burned into his skin? John…"

The hands returned to his shoulders, pushing him out the door.

John allowed himself to be guided onto the street willingly. One thing you could trust Sherlock Holmes to give you was a life fraught with danger and excitement. And God, did he love him for it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Warning: rating has gone up to T, because of small amount of quite graphic violence quite near the beginning of this chapter. **

**This is a huge chapter, but I actually have a plot, and am really enjoying writing this! Reviews would be appreciated, if you have the time and inclination.**

Lestrade strode towards them as they climbed out of the cab, looking eagerly around the place to which they had been summoned. As far as John could tell, it was a rather dodgy alley, not in the best part of town, and probably a good spot for a killing: most self respecting people would not take a stroll down here after dark. He couldn't see the body from where they stood: it was surrounded by people in blue full-body suits and latex gloves.

A few weeks ago, he would have thought Sherlock crazy for assuming that this team of professional people would move out of the way for a self-proclaimed consulting detective with the world's biggest ego, but now it was normality, even if it was normality that made him feel a little guilty. They were only doing their job; it was no one's fault that Sherlock could do it better than them.

"What do we know about the body?" Sherlock was asking, as he and Lestrade turned and walked towards the huddle of people. John followed. Sherlock was handed a thin file, which he flicked open, and surveyed haughtily.

"Male, 38 – he was a magazine reporter, steady girlfriend, he seems quite ordinary," Lestrade said, stopping a foot away from where the body lay, still obscured. "No known criminal affiliations, but we think the branding on his chest is the mark of some gang – got a couple of blokes running it through the computer now."

Sherlock made no answer, and Lestrade watched as the man donned latex gloves, handing his own to John, who shoved them in his jacket pocket. John thought Lestrade looked a little peeved, and he didn't blame him.

"Thanks," he said, used to supplying the manners that Sherlock forgot. The DI nodded once in acknowledgement. "How long was he missing for, by the way?" John jerked his head towards where the body was lying.

Lestrade looked a little perturbed at John's knowledge.

"He's rubbing off on you," he commented, glancing at Sherlock, who was ignoring them, and trying to catch a glimpse of the corpse through the curtain that was the forensics team. "How did you know he'd been missing?"

"Sherlock," John said, by way of explanation.

Lestrade smiled a little, and sighed. "Was reported missing about five days ago. Some poor bugger on the way back from a trip to Tescos found him here last night, shot through the head."

John grimaced. He'd seen his fair share of horribly injured people, but he couldn't imagine it a nice experience if you were caught unawares.

"Anyway, best see if we can let Sherlock have a look at him," Lestrade said, shaking his head. "God knows why I do this…" he stepped away, towards his team.

Within minutes, John, Sherlock and Lestrade were the only people around the dead man; the forensics team having moved away at the DI's request, albeit with a good deal of nasty looks at Sherlock. It wasn't pretty, John would happily admit: about half the man's head was blown off, leaving a bloody gaping hole where his face should have been – an ear and a few tufts of brown hair clinging to the skull that was still attached to his neck. A bloody mess was splattered on the damp wall of the alleyway: dark, congealed red against the dull green of the moss and the dark brick. The branding on his chest added to the ominous picture. It looked all the world as if it were a gang shooting. But something was wrong, John couldn't put his finger on it. He watched Sherlock bend over the body, tracing his fingers over the burnt in symbol, mouthing incomprehensible words to himself. He watched him move to the gruesome splattering on the wall, frown, and turn to John.

"How long do you think he's been dead?"

John suddenly realised what was wrong.

"About – about a week. Five days." John paused, his eyes meeting Sherlock's much paler ones, full of intrigue.

"That's when he went missing." Lestrade supplied.

"He wasn't killed here, then," Sherlock concluded, standing up, a smile breaking across his face. He turned to John, and pointed. "That is _gorgeous_. Look at the accuracy of the pattern of blood on the wall. Someone wanted us to believe he was killed here. But look – the blood on the wall is less congealed than what's left on his skull. But still. Nice craftsmanship. It would fool most people."

He shot a malevolent glance at the huddle of people a few feet away. The corners of his mouth pulled up slightly in excitement, and the detective pulled the latex gloves from his hands with a snap, turning to Lestrade, businesslike.

"Two things," he said, retrieving his own gloves from John's pocket and pulling them on. "I need to know if any of the other missing people's bodies turn up."

"Other…?"

"Missing people. Four others went missing at similar times to Daniel Yates. Judging by his body, he was killed as soon as he was taken, it just took his murderer some time to figure out what to do with the body. Therefore, the others are probably dead too. I need to know if you find them, it's vital. Secondly – do you have addresses for Mr Yates' place of work and residence?"

A quick trip to Scotland Yard had provided both addresses, although it had taken the combined efforts of John and Lestrade to bully Sherlock into the back of a police car. They had then taken a cab to the dead man's workplace, where Sherlock had got out, whereas he'd sent John to speak to Mr Yates' girlfriend with only the excuse 'You're better at feelings'.

That's exactly where he was now, standing at the bottom of the rather formidable block of flats, which was where Daniel Yates had resided just a few days before. It hadn't occurred to John to point out that his girlfriend might not even be in: it was, after all, eleven in the morning, and most people had jobs. His one hope was, now that this thought had occurred to him, that she might have neglected going to work after receiving news about her partner's death. However, if this was the case, he wondered if she'd be in any fit state to talk to a doctor playing assistant to a consulting detective. That was the problem with 'being good' at feelings (or, being considerate, as John thought it was): you worried about hurting them.

He arrived at the address he had been given, checking the number of the flat on the crumpled post-it in his hand. 28. He took a look at the dark blue door, and knocked, checking the post-it again for the name of the person he sought.

Jenny Bailey was, mercifully, in. His knock was answered by a tall, brown haired woman. She had blue eyes that were red rimmed at the moment, and she was clutching a tissue. John licked his lips nervously. The woman looked quite distraught, sniffing in the dim lighting of the hallway.

"Sorry for intruding, Miss Bailey" he said, finding it easiest to revert to doctor-mode with those grieving: it was more professional and helped him achieve some distance from their sadness – comparing it to his own past losses and becoming emotional would help nobody. "But I'm here about your partner's decease." He paused; the woman had made no move to indicate she had heard him. Then, he added a little more gently: "Is it OK if I come in for a moment?"

She did acknowledge that: nodding her head, and stepping aside to let him in. As she moved her head, her ponytail bobbed cheerfully, contrasting horribly to the tear rolling down her cheek. John wanted badly to reach out and stop it, it seemed inappropriate on a woman who was the picture of bereavement.

She managed to pull herself together enough to offer him a cup of tea – which he declined politely – and settle them both at the kitchen table. John let her mop her eyes, before beginning to speak.

"Are you sure it's not too soon?" he asked, feeling guilty. She nodded again, and sniffed. Remembering the deductions Sherlock had been firing off in the taxi, he begun with the one the detective had thought the most likely, almost certain.

"Right," he begun, feeling uncomfortable. "Now, I know Daniel was a reporter – I don't suppose he'd mentioned any particular stories he was working on? Recently." John added.

She didn't answer for a few moments, and John extended his hands to where hers were clasped on the table. She looked up.

"Really," he said. "It's fine if it is too soon."

"No," she answered suddenly, the first time she had spoken since he'd arrived. He saw a determination appear in her face, and felt her hands ball up under his own. She took a shuddering breath. "Daniel told me…he said he was working on something big." She managed a watery smile, and looked up from the wood of the table, meeting John's eyes. "Said it was his big story. Wouldn't tell anyone about it, mind. Terrified someone would get there first. Said he'd seen something, and he didn't think anyone else knew." She managed a little laugh. "I mean, he only worked for a little magazine, but you know. Really excited. He did tell me it was something 'scandalous', though."

She bit her lip, frowning. John squeezed her hands comfortingly.

"I don't suppose he had any enemies?" John asked, feeling this question was probably futile. Her boyfriend wasn't Sherlock, who had once answered 'which one?' on being posed the same question.

"Nah," she said, another tear emerging. "Wasn't the type. Kept himself to himself. Good word for everyone."

John nodded. She was dissolving back into tears again, and he felt the poor woman had probably been questioned enough for today.

"Thankyou very much," he finished, getting up, and giving her a sympathetic smile. She nodded, not looking at him anymore. He decided to let himself out.

It was on the way through the lounge that he encountered someone else. An extremely familiar someone else, sitting patiently on the sofa, yawning pointedly as John entered the room. He didn't speak to him, just glared, and followed him outside. Only after the latch had clicked shut did he address his flatmate.

"Sherlock!" he hissed, not wanting to have a full blown argument outside this poor woman's flat, who was understandably very upset. "You don't let yourself into people's homes!"

"I knew you'd be there," Sherlock pointed out, as they made their way back down the dim hallway towards the exit. "And getting very cosy by the look of it." His voice was laced with boredom, and John felt his anger flare. He genuinely hated Sherlock like this: being deliberately thoughtless, pointing fingers where it was unnecessary. It was with gritted teeth that he answered, wishing very much that he could get away from him.

"Her partner had just died," he said.

"Well, five days ago."

"And _as such_," he continued, ignoring the jibe intended to irritate. "I don't think it's unreasonable to offer some comfort to her." He looked at Sherlock, and tried to swallow the urge to punch him in his supremely unconcerned face. "Could you _try_ and pretend that you aren't completely heartless?"

The last sentence hung in the air between them, and John found he couldn't quite look the taller man in the eye, he wanted to stuff the words back into his mouth. His mind was suddenly and horribly filled with an Irish drawl, a voice that made him feel sick when he thought of it.

"_I will _burn_ the heart…out of you."_

"_I have been reliably informed that I _don't have one_."_

Once again, John found himself silently hating his own temper, making him that informant. Again. He couldn't quite bring himself to apologise, and the silence stretched on.

It became almost unbearable, and John wrestled with himself, desperate to break the tension, his pride not quite allowing him to.

"Anyway," Sherlock said suddenly, his glass eyes cold, as if nothing had occurred. "I wanted your opinion."

John was hit by the overwhelming urge to apologise. The words just wouldn't form in his mouth.

"You mean you wanted to show off your deductions," he said, with a surprisingly easy smile, which Sherlock returned. He fell into step with him, and began scouring the street for a cab as Sherlock began explaining his trip to Daniel Yates' workplace.

By the time they arrived at the small building, John had explained his talk with Jenny Bailey to Sherlock, who was particularly pleased with her assertion that Daniel had been working on 'something big'.

Sherlock breezed through the door, which creaked from rust as they entered, and John looked around the room in interest. There were hundreds of magazine articles lining the walls, and a few big glossy photos of pretty women in formal dresses, with headlines stamped across them. There was one picture of a man too: all white teeth and tan, and toned upper body, standing in trunks next to the reception desk. The whole room looked like a giant magazine cover, and John supposed the magazine in question was called _Sheek_, judging by the bold lettering peeling off the front of the desk. A receptionist with bleached blond hair looked up at them. She eyed Sherlock up and down, and frowned at him.

"What do you want now?" she asked, her eyes moving to examine John as she spoke.

"Just another tiny look," Sherlock answered, his voice lower and more silky than usual. His eyes met those of the receptionist, and an oddly seductive smile crept onto his face. John didn't like it, it looked wrong on him. "You don't mind, do you?"

The woman looked as though she minded very much, but John would challenge anyone not to give Sherlock what he wanted when he was looking at you like that, and she gestured towards the door with a little self-loathing sigh. Sherlock grinned, and darted off, John in pursuit. He spotted the woman glaring after _him_, unfairly, and was tempted to go back and tell her that it wasn't like that, and she was welcome to his flatmate, but he didn't. He was too damn curious to see what Sherlock had found.

Daniel Yates' office was small, with just the one window, and a little wooden desk right next to it, complete with computer, and stacks of paper which had clearly been sorted through recently, probably by the man squished into the room beside him. John turned to him eagerly.

"So?"

"Let's start with the room itself." Sherlock said, gesturing around him. "I've had a look around the whole building, and this is one of the smaller offices, so he's clearly not high up in the company. That's supported by the fact that none of his colleagues had any idea that he was working on anything special: so he clearly didn't want to risk anyone taking away what his partner described as his 'big story'. That confirms, almost definitely, that he was killed because of what he knew. As far as I can tell, there is no record in here of that particular piece of work: the paperwork by his desk shows he mainly worked on the sports section of the magazine – his partner's reference to a scandal suggests celebrity – and there's nothing to do with that here. So, he either never left that work here, or it was taken by his killer, possibly a combination of the two." Sherlock paused for breath, and continued. "He was kidnapped from here. It would have been easy, there's hardly much security around here. There was a brief struggle – see the scraping on the wood of the table and the tea stain on the floor? – clearly knocked during the struggle. Yates was generally very organised: his work is organised both by subject and in chronological order: if he'd spilled it he'd have made an attempt to clean it up, but none has been made, so he was clearly taken straight after it happened. Also, the window opens far enough to climb through, and it was unlocked when I got here. Obviously, you can't lock it from the outside. Will that do you?"

John nodded, trying to suppress the smile that was threatening to blossom into a full blown grin. It didn't seem to matter how many times Sherlock did that, he never failed to be amazed. He let himself out of the man's office, Sherlock following right behind him, pleased at John's reaction. Genius needs an audience and all that.

"The trouble is," Sherlock commented, as they left past the scowling receptionist, "is that celebrity scandal is hardly rare, and assuming that he was killed for his knowledge, nobody else knows about it."

"Except the other missing people," John supplied.

"Exactly, John," Sherlock answered, sounding both impressed and surprised. "And, obviously, our killer is closely related to the celebrity involved in this 'scandal'."

John didn't bother to comment; he supposed the suggestion sounded plausible. They continued along the pavement in silence for a little while: Sherlock deep in thought, John regretting the fact that he had to be back at the clinic tomorrow, and not only would he not be involved in further investigation, but he would be plagued by texts the entire time. Sherlock hailed a cab, and John climbed in after him. They sat in this comfortable silence for a few minutes, until the consulting detective was unable to contain his glee at this new found case.

"So, all we have to do now," Sherlock said, smiling, and looking at John in anticipation and excitement, "is wait for our next victim to be found."


	3. Chapter 3

**A couple of things I should mention before we start (although as I write this, I have already written the entire chapter):**

**Firstly: 'The Peckham Boys', the gang mentioned in this chapter, and probably in some later chapters too, are a real gang. I do not have any link to them, all the information mentioned about them is sourced from Wikipedia, I have merely borrowed their name and invented them a symbol. No offence is intended to anyone.**

**It's probably a good time to reaffirm that I don't own 'Sherlock' or any of the characters from the show.**

**Finally, I should mention that Sherlock was being incredibly awkward while I was writing this, as he kept insisting on switching tenses and going out of character. Both should be patched up, but I apologise if it suddenly switches from the present to the past, or vice versa. Enjoy!**

When they returned home, John had physically forced Sherlock to sleep, ignoring all his protests: "How do you expect me to think, if I'm asleep, John?", and frogmarched him into his room. He'd then, rather annoyingly, refused to leave until Sherlock at least lied down, and had stolen his phone. Frustrated, bored, Sherlock had reluctantly closed his eyes, though not until he heard his flatmate retreat to his own room, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of being right. He was the one that was right.

Much to his irritation, he woke late: the LED display on the clock by his bed showed it to be gone ten. With a growl of frustration, he noted that John would have already left, so he had no one to berate for not waking him up. Muttering under his breath at the human body's ridiculous and inconvenient need to rest, he marched into the kitchen.

He noticed several things. The first, was that John had been running late too: there were crumbs all over the counter that he had not cleared up, as well as an unwashed plate shoved hastily next to the sink. When he was feeling charitable, he might have washed it, but John had let him sleep, so he didn't. He also noticed his phone sitting next to this unwashed crockery, flashing faintly. He narrowed his eyes, noting the fingerprints on the screen that John had left as he moved it from location to location. Annoyed as he was at the theft, he noted that John had not thought to look through it, for which he felt grateful. It was nice to know that someone respected your privacy: he imagined the first thing most employees of Scotland Yard would do, would be to have a good investigate.

There were two unread messages, and he read them absentmindedly, as he hurried back to his room to get dressed. The first was from John:

_I told you people need sleep. I finish at four._

Sherlock frowned at the friendly jibe, but sent him a reply, 'Dull. SH.' before turning to the second message. His heart leapt as he saw the name. Lestrade. The text was short, confirming another body had been found, and an address, where it could be found.

Sherlock grinned to himself, sent the DI a message to confirm his presence shortly, and dressed quickly.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

The latest victim was sprawled in a side alley adjacent to a pub. Sherlock could see the body as he ducked under the police tape this time. This one was female, and very young, if he wasn't mistaken (and he _wasn't_ mistaken, ever), probably still at school. She'd been shot through the chest, and again the bloodstains on the fence were immaculately done, but Sherlock imagined that this girl had been dead for a lot longer than it appeared at first sight. He was only a few feet from her, about to bend down and get a proper look, when his way was barred by a most unwelcome officer.

"Sally," he said, acknowledging her with a nod, and making to sidestep round her, but she moved with him, blocking his way.

"Hello, freak."

"It's nice to see you haven't run out of insults," he commented icily. "Tell me, what lie have the police force concocted to feed the public about the first body?"

"Unexplained gang violence," she answered coolly, crossing her arms. "Tragic accident."

"But you know that's wrong," Sherlock said, wondering if it was unacceptable to shove a member of the police force out of his way.

"No," she corrected him. "We know it didn't happen yesterday."

"Well," Sherlock replied, cocking an eyebrow, and smirking. "This gang went to an awful lot of trouble to make it look like it happened yesterday, when it didn't. And then, out of charity of course, they leave a symbol, just to make it easier for us to catch them."

"Yes they did."

"I'm sure it's just artistic leanings," he said sarcastically. "A mistaken shooting, and they choose to keep the body for nearly a week, just to put it somewhere else and make it look as though it happened there. I thought you lot were meant to be perceptive."

She glared at him.

"Where's your 'colleague' today, anyway?" she asked, shifting her weight onto her other foot, and changing tack. "Or has he finally seen sense?"

"I don't believe John's whereabouts concern you," he answered loftily, and Donovan was saved the task of thinking of another cutting remark by the arrival of Lestrade. Sherlock spared her a withering stare, and turned to his preferred member of the police.

"Any news on the branding?" Sherlock asked him eagerly, not bothering to greet him properly. All the social niceties people tended to insist on wasted so much time.

"Yes," Lestrade said, giving a wry smile. "It's associated, generally with the Peckham Boys, but –"

Sherlock frowned.

"That's not right."

"It _is_," Lestrade assured him. "They don't usually use it, its not really wise for a criminal gang to leave a trail of clues for the police to follow, but it has been associated with some of their graffiti, and apparently its become a bit of a tradition." He looked at Sherlock. The uncertainty in his face did not match the conviction in his voice. "It does fit, Sherlock. They're not exactly known for their respect of life."

Sherlock frowned, cataloguing the little spiked symbol in the back of his mind as something to associate with the gang, but there was something off, still. The Peckham boys were well known for committing murder, trafficking drugs, and even petty robbery – so their being responsible for a few more murders did not surprise him. But why advertise their involvement? Why give him a clue?

"_Why does anyone do anything? Because I'm _bored._"_

Sherlock shook his head to clear it. This case was not related to Moriarty. It was clever, but there were gaping flaws that he would have thought to tie up: he was…more thorough, more elegant. He removed the symbol from the forefront of his mind, nonetheless still examining it with interest at the back, and he and Lestrade moved over to the body, where there were a few stray forensic scientists examining every square inch of the corpse and its surroundings.

Pointless. This body was a carbon-copy of the last. They needed to look outside the time-of-death, and DNA samples here. Why had nobody noticed that?

He crouched next to the girl, scanning an expert eye over her frame. Only child, early teens, probably raised by her single father – no, mother. That's not important. She's linked, somehow, to this mysterious 'scandal', this knowledge that no one's allowed to have, and live. She knew too. How? She's completely unremarkable. His eyes spot a glint of silver around her neck, which he fishes from underneath her t-shirt. It's a small pendant, in the shape of half a heart, broken. Engraved in tiny silver letters, is the word 'friend'.

"Why does it say that?" he asked, looking up at Lestrade. The other man bends over the fragment of silver, but Sally Donovan is still hovering nearby, and she answers first.

"You are joking," she interjects incredulously, laughing at him.

"No, Sally," Sherlock yawns, pointedly. "Unlike you, I do not possess a limitless supply of wit."

She scoffed at him, and Lestrade intervened.

"Can you two stop bickering for a moment, please? This _is _a crime scene."

The two don't stop glaring at each other, but Donovan does at least see fit to answer his initial question. Sherlock doesn't see why she can't just be civil to him, it would allow things to be done much quicker, and then allow them both to get away from each other as fast as possible.

"It's half of a 'best friends' necklace," she informs him, rolling her eyes at his ignorance. "Her best friend," she folds her arms, and looks witheringly at him, "wears the other half."

"Thankyou," Sherlock answers, forgetting that she's there as soon as he's got what he wants, and he turns back to the dead girl on the pavement. He needs to see her house, and preferably speak to both her mother and her 'best friend'. This knowledge, they have already established, is most likely linked to a person in the public eye. The use of the word scandal suggest either some kind of illicit activity, such as taking drugs, or a relationship that will be deemed unacceptable in the eyes of society. So, this girl has either spotted this person of note engaged in said illicit activity – and he hopes that's not the explanation, because it means they've hit another dead end – or she has learned it from the people around her – word of mouth. Logically, large quantities of people can't know, or there would have been a lot more disappearances and murders. Also, the probable nature of the information, is information that people only share with those they trust: her 'best friend' and her mother seem the most likely candidates. Of course, that means they're also, probably, in danger of being targeted. That's not important at the moment.

He isn't relishing the task of trying to coax information out of grieving women, and would really rather John was around to be the shoulder to cry on, the comforter, so he can focus on the questioning. He's capable of being both those things if he wants, and he takes satisfaction in the knowledge that he can behave at odds to his own personality at will. It takes skill, self-restraint, and an acute knowledge of human behaviour and reactions; and he possesses all of those things. It's just – well, this _is_ a clean shirt.

_I need you, it's important. SH._

_Sherlock, I'm working. I said I'd be off at four. JW._

_It's almost four, and I need your specific skills. Might be dangerous. SH._

_It's one. You're holding your phone. I will see you when I finish. JW._

Sherlock grits his teeth. Stupid, stubborn doctor. At least, he supposes, he'll be spared John's incompetence, and actually get the information he needs. He sends one last text, jabbing the 'send' button with unwonted venom, and stows his phone inside his coat.

_I hate you. SH._

Smirking in satisfaction, he takes the file on the dead girl that Lestrade passes him, and makes his way to the nearest main road to look for a cab. He gives the cabbie the address of the girl's place of residence, and settles down to read the notes on her – Isabel Shaw. He feels his phone vibrate against his chest, and ignores it. The file has confirmed his deductions about the girl's upbringing, he notes with a self satisfied smile.

What really nags at his mind, as he reads through the notes and records about the dead teenager, is the little spiked circle burnt into her neck, burnt into Daniel Yates' chest. It's very odd. He can't imagine a notorious, violent gang, going to great lengths to protect the reputation of a petty celebrity who has gone off the rails. His phone vibrates again, and he pulls it out with rather more force than necessary, frustrated at the dead ends he seems to be running into. Both messages are from John. Right now, he'd rather they were from Lestrade.

Sherlock almost snarls at the phone as he puts it away again. He doesn't need an apology, he would like a hand, a second eye, an audience, someone to argue with over his morality. He marvels that John hasn't realised that.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Twenty minutes of weeping mother and teenage girl later, and Sherlock is wishing John were there only on the grounds of possessing a gun. Sherlock's not sure whether he'd shoot himself or the two women across the table, however.

Himself, probably. He'd rather avoid a court date, proceedings can get incredibly dull.

He's outdone himself to get information out of these two. He's made them tea, he's smiled and nodded, he actually let the distraught best friend fling her arms around his middle and cry into his (clean, damn her!) shirt. He's offered comforting hands, he's even volunteered several methods to deal with bereavement. He's rather pleased with both his performance and tolerance, but he can feel the frustration bubbling beneath his carefully crafted exterior. All he's managed to get so far is "I miss her", "It's too hard" and "Everybody loved her". He exercises enormous effort not to point out that clearly everyone did not love her, or else she would not be lying dead on the pavement a few miles away.

Patience, he realises, is essential when dealing with incredibly emotional people such as those in front of him, but Sherlock likes to exercise as little patience as is possible. Generally, he sees patience as a waste of time. He wants to go down to Bart's morgue and have a more thorough investigation of both bodies, and it looks like he's going to be stuck here all afternoon. He reflects rather bitterly that John got off extremely lightly with the woman he questioned yesterday. She was not as determined to be unduly awkward.

He refocuses his attention, his eyes scanning the women in front of him. The mother, unsurprisingly, bears a striking resemblance to the girl at the crime scene: hair dyed blonde, and the same green eyes. The best friend – who introduced herself as Scarlet Vlascenko, with a faint Russian accent – contrasts strikingly from both mother and daughter. She's very pale, with dark red lips, and hair that's almost black, but not quite. Her pale blue eyes, not dissimilar to his own, are very red: he can see tiny capillaries emerging in the whites. He's deduced that it's her that has the secrets – it's obvious from the way she holds herself, and the locket around her neck balled in her fist. It seems very likely that it's these secrets that got her best friend killed.

"Scarlet," he says, making his voice hesitant enough to sound considerate, but sure enough so she knows he does want an answer. "This is important. Is there anything – anything at all – that you only told Isabel, and no one else?" He pauses, and draws in a breath, placing a hand on her shoulder, stroking it gently with one thumb. The girl relaxes a little. "It's important." He looks her in the eyes, with an expression both sympathetic and very serious. "It might help me find who killed her. You do want them brought to justice, don't you?"

Scarlet breaks down again, and Sherlock swallows his annoyance and slides a comforting arm around her, shooting a sympathetic smile over her head at the dead girl's mother. She actually seems to be coping better. Unfortunately, he realises that this is only because she doesn't want to show herself up, and not for any interesting reason relevant to the case.

"There was one thing," the teenager manages, and she glances at the older woman, looking anxious. Ah. She doesn't want her to hear. This could be promising. He asks, very politely and sensitively, if the mother might give them a moment, and she does so, retreating to another room. As soon as she is gone, the girl seems more inclined to speak, and Sherlock feels a little stab of hope and interest.

"She was the only one who knew," Scarlet began, her wide eyes looking up him, scared. She takes a deep breath, and manages to speak between sobs. "She knew I…I liked girls."

She turns away from Sherlock, hiding her face, as if he's going to judge her, push her away. Sherlock curses the shallowness of youth, and society in general, so quick to stereotype and hate that it's prevented her from telling him something that might be important. He's in no position to judge anyone. He tells her that most of the London police force think he's sleeping with his male roommate, and she cheers up a little, and becomes more open, pleased that they share some kind of common ground.

He can just imagine John, choking, assuring the girl that whatever the police think, this is definitely, _definitely _not true. Bless.

"Anyway, there's this one girl who I'd been seeing for a while," she says, and stops again, looking worried. "I mean, I really like her, but she's a lot older than me, and I couldn't tell anyone except Isabel. She was really nice about it."

She dissolves into sobs again at this point, at the mention of her friend. Sherlock's interest is caught, and he notes the use of the past tense for future reference. This looks like it might fit very well into his theories.

"How much older?" He asks.

"She was 25," Scarlet says, and licks her lips nervously.

If this girlfriend was in the public eye, Sherlock thinks, this could certainly be a scandal. Not only is Scarlet ten years her junior, but she's also underage. Someone might very well want to cover this up. Was murder really necessary, though? Surely a superinjunction would have sufficed.

"What was her name?" he coaxes. Scarlet screws her face up, and Sherlock becomes more and more convinced that the person is one of note. She wouldn't be so apprehensive if there wasn't a chance he would recognise the name. He feels like smiling at his own brilliance, but doesn't. It would no doubt be considered insensitive.

"Virginia Smith."

Sherlock is disappointed not to recognise the name, but stores it in his memory to Google as soon as he leaves the house. A knock at the door breaks the silence that has appeared while he thinks. Before going to answer it – is it rude, to answer the door at someone else's house? – he indicates to Miss Shaw that she can return to her own kitchen. Then, he excuses himself, and wonders if this visitor is going to be interesting, or if it's just a sympathy visit.

As it turned out, interesting.

"John," he says, staring at the doctor in surprise. His sudden appearance has rendered him speechless, and he doesn't like being surprised.

"They let me off early," John tells him. Trust him to state the blindingly obvious. Sherlock knew an escapee when he saw one. "Lestrade told me where you'd gone."

Sherlock let the man in, and led him through to the kitchen, briefly introducing everyone. He let the boredom in his voice become apparent as he did so; he'd got what he came for.

He articulated this last point slightly more sensitively, and they make their farewells: Sherlock with thinly veiled glee, John all irritating sincerity and sympathy. He noticed Scarlet's eyes flicking from him to John and back again, and regretted his little anecdote to get her to open up. Honestly.

They left the house, Sherlock gratefully breathing in lungfuls of London air. As they fell into step, side by side, he turned to John.

"We're going to the morgue, I need cheering up." He took out his phone, smiling a little at the chuckle that escaped the doctor at his comment. "I don't suppose you know who Virginia Smith is, do you?"


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4 already! **

**WARNING: This chapter introduces a religious theme – specifically Christianity – and could perhaps be interpreted as a negative portrayal of the religion. I would like to point out that this is not the case, I come from a Christian family myself, and references to it are just part of the plot. No offence is meant to anyone, but I realise this is a sensitive issue, and you have been warned.**

**Also, I (oddly) don't own ITV, which is mentioned, just so as everyone knows.**

**On a more positive note, I would like to thank everyone so far who has reviewed/ alerted/ favourited this story, makes me very happy, thankyou for all the positivity :D **

**This chapter ends with some fairly complicated deductions from Sherlock, and I think it should all make sense, the number of times I've read it through, but if I've missed something, feel free to point it out, and I'll fix it. Enjoy!**

Sherlock was abusing the wall again.

This time, thankfully, it was with drawing pins, and not a gun. He'd got a huge, sprawling map of London pinned across it, with photos of the bodies that he'd just taken from their trip to the morgue, joined to where the bodies were found with bits of string and pins; there were notes and deductions and a few newspaper clippings strewn around the outside of the map. In front of this spectacle stood the madman himself, staring at it with intent, and pacing a little with both hands in his hair.

Such collages, John realised, that sprawl across the wall for days on end, are certainly one of the ways that Sherlock can organise his thoughts, put everything together and see what he couldn't before. But they're more than that. John has no doubt that Sherlock could easily come to the same conclusions using only his mind, without any physical manifestation of his thought processes, but he doesn't. He likes the drama of it, the way you walk into the room and are almost intimidated by this monumental piece of artwork – because, to Sherlock, this is an art – he likes the evidence of his intellect on show. Every connection.

John watches Sherlock for a few seconds longer; he's muttering under his breath, pointing to photos and locations, pausing to read a phrase out of one of the newspaper clippings, then growling in frustration, swinging round until his eyes fall on John. He realises, in the split second this happens, that he was meant to be looking up Virginia Smith, and has abandoned it, in favour of just watching Sherlock. He turns back to the screen of the laptop, fast.

"Have you done yet?" Sherlock snaps, pressing his lips together in impatience.

"Yes – almost." John is reluctant to admit that he's been admiring the other man work for the past five minutes. "And anyway," he adds, finding himself a little irritated at Sherlock's impatient tone. "You've already looked her up yourself."

"A cursory first glance," Sherlock tells him, his frustration clearly mounting as he resumes his pacing. "I need as much data as I can get. As unconcerned as you seem to be about actually thinking, I would have thought that you could have at least looked at this as a means to prevent any further murders, as the preservation of human life seems to concern you so much. When I say I want something, it's because it's _important_."

Sherlock stops, breathing hard. His hands, with which he had been gesticulating violently, he lowers to his hips, and glares at John. John folds his arms, shifts his chair away from the computer, and glares right back.

"John – "

"There you go," he says, getting up, and pushing past Sherlock to get to the kitchen. He waves one hand behind him to indicate the screen. The other grips the counter with unnecessary force, and John grits his teeth together, praying silently that Sherlock will understand that he wants to be left alone. He's rather loath to admit that the reason he hasn't left altogether for a walk, is because he actually wants to help, but right now, he's finding it very difficult to remember why. He wonders, briefly, how his admiration of Sherlock turned so quickly to irritation, but his mind quickly returns to the source of his annoyance.

Sherlock never ceases to shock him in his being demanding and selfish; it's something John often forgets while they're running through London, or stifling giggles at crime scenes, or even arguing amicably over TV programmes – but it's times like these, when Sherlock's mind is set entirely on one thing, that John finds his emotions at odds with each other. Amazement is in constant battle with irritation and exasperation, especially when his flatmate displays his spectacular lack of tact and care. Sherlock gets so focussed on the job in hand that his mind just forgets the tiny amount of social finesse that he possesses: everything is switched off, everything except the data, and the case.

John can't work out if that bothers him.

Yes he can. It's fine. It's all fine. Damn it, he actually _likes_ watching Sherlock work. It fascinates him the way the man can turn everything off: absolutely everything – emotions, manners, anything that might slow him down, prevent him from getting where he needs to go. His mind focuses on the data alone. When Sherlock works, he's almost a machine: completely efficient, putting everything unimportant from his mind. What stops that being terrifying, is the sheer thrill he radiates, so strong you can see it running through him as he pours over documents and corpses and chemicals. It's the only emotion he allows himself when he's working. John's glad he keeps that little shred of humanity, and feels his anger at Sherlock begin to ebb away. He might not understand him, but he definitely admires him.

He takes a deep, calming breath, and turns around. His stupid flatmate was very rude at times, but when you lived with Sherlock Holmes, it was to be expected. He hadn't meant harm; his brain just hadn't computed that what came out of his mouth would hurt anyone, because he'd switched that part off. Bloody consulting detective.

John crossed back into the lounge, where Sherlock was bending over his laptop, scribbling onto a pad of paper next to it. God, they needed a printer. Sherlock didn't stop working, but he looked up very briefly with a small smile, and a 'Thankyou'.

John clears his throat, a little embarrassed, and manages a smile.

"No problem." A pause. "Do you need anything else? I want to help."

"You've forgiven me then," Sherlock comments, and John wonders why he does, with remarks like that. He doesn't answer. "Knew you'd come round."

Sherlock still doesn't look up from what he's doing, and John wonders if perhaps it was a rash decision.

The detective scribbles frantically for a few more seconds, then stabs a full stop into the paper with a rather aggressive finality. That done, he picks up both pen and paper, shuts John's laptop, and holds it out to him. His eyes meet John's. John hesitates for a second before taking the computer, giving a small nod of thanks.

Sherlock smiles then, a proper smile, and lets his breath out, his glance switching from his flatmate to the intricate chart on the poor abused wall. John follows the detective's gaze. They both consider it for a few moments, until John breaks the silence.

"Go on, then." He says, jerking his head towards the wall, and settling down to listen in his favourite armchair. He's slightly annoyed that he missed so much today owing to the fact that he had to work, and is eager to find out what Sherlock's worked out in his absence.

The consulting detective moves over to the map without protest, scraping a wooden chair along the floor behind him, and perching on the back of it. He turns to John.

"Fine," he says. "Tell me about Virginia Smith."

They both know that Sherlock has committed every bit of data regarding Virginia Smith to his memory already, but they both prefer it this way: it involves them both, and gives Sherlock both an outside eye and an audience. John clears his throat, and opens his laptop. Sherlock has left the page on the woman open.

"Ok, Virginia Smith…" he scans down the page. "25 years old, currently recording a new prime time TV show, scheduled to be shown on ITV later this year – Faith:UK – presenter _and _executive producer." John stops, and looks up at Sherlock, who is staring at him rather intently from his perch. "That's good going at her age."

"Correct. Tell me about the programme."

"Alright…" he consults the screen again for confirmation. "Faith:UK…bringing religion to today's youth…relevance in modern society…looking at a wide range of faiths…um. Focuses mainly on Christianity."

"Good," Sherlock says, leaning forward. "Tell me something about Christianity, John."

John falters.

"God gave his only Son to save the world," he suggests, screwing his face up to recall long forgotten Sunday school discussions. "Um…"

Sherlock laughs.

"I meant something relevant to the case."

"Do I look like a priest?" John asks him indignantly, laughing a little himself.

"Think, John! _Think_." Sherlock reprimands him. "We know that Virginia Smith had a secret relationship with a fifteen year old girl! Not only would the age gap be generally frowned upon, but the fact that she had a same sex relationship is hardly a brilliant advertisement for a Christian show."

John frowns. For once, he's not sure Sherlock's right. It's a rather nice feeling, but he's wary of displaying smugness.

'_You think it was the _cat_. It wasn't the cat.'_

"I thought most Christians generally had accepted that homosexuality was alright now," he points out. "I mean, with the whole 'everyone created equal' thing."

Sherlock smirks at him.

"I thought you were trying to convince me you weren't a priest," he comments. "That's one of the particularly controversial things about the show…it's promoting 'old school' – as Virginia _so _eloquently puts it – Christianity. Stereotypes, everything taken literally."

"Teenagers won't go for that," John says, frowning.

"Apparently ITV disagree, or have been bribed, but I don't want to talk television hierarchy. It's not particularly important, either way." He takes a breath, and John leans back into the armchair. "Now, of course, it's possible that Virginia herself was the murderer, but that is very unlikely. She and Scarlet were clearly caught in some kind of romantic situation by Daniel Yates, so she's not been being careful, _and_ it seems fairly improbable that she would murder the best friend of her lover. So, let's look at who else went missing. A security guard at the studios where the show is being filmed has gone, as has her boyfriend – very sensible, very religious, I should mention – and a seemingly unconnected couple. They're all from London. They've clearly all spotted Virginia and Scarlet, and figured out her dirty little secret. So, they all have to go."

Sherlock pauses, turns the chair he's leaning on round, and sits down.

"I don't know about you, John, but it looks very much like there's an authority figure in the background, pulling the strings." He wrinkles his nose. "Someone like Mycroft."

"Surveying her." John breathes, looking up at the detective in comprehension.

"Obviously. How else would the killer know who needs to be disposed of? This figure has got to be close to her: I would bank on a relative. Look at the facts, John. She's heading up this huge, controversial, almost evangelical TV show, but she's conducting a secret relationship with a teenage girl. If this show were entirely her own concept, surely she'd be presenting a moderate religion that was willing to embrace modern thinking: she's 25, she'll have been well aware for some time that she is not heterosexual. So, there's someone behind her, bleeding their own ideas into this show…she's probably just a puppet. It's definitely an older relative, someone she feels she can't refuse. Unlikely to be a friend – they're easily cast off once they stop fitting in with a person's wishes – and also unlikely to be a younger relative – you don't obey your younger siblings or cousins. Obviously this authority figure has something to gain from this show succeeding, or they wouldn't be doing this. I think it's likely that those surveying her are family too. Our authority figure wouldn't want to employ anyone who has more to gain by selling the story to the media. Family will either love her, and genuinely want to save her reputation – they probably haven't been told about the murders, though – or they too will have something to gain from the success of her programme. Simple."

John stared at him. A part of him notes how Sherlock is so able to dismiss the values of friendship, a little sadly, but he doesn't want to get into another disagreement, and he does want to discuss this case. He tries to put it to the back of his mind.

"You got all that from the fact that she presented a Christian TV show?" John asks, laughing. Then, he stops, remembering something – something Sherlock hasn't. "You've forgotten something."

"No I haven't." His voice has that lazy certainty that's so characteristic of him. Very suddenly, Sherlock leans forwards, and scrutinises John's face. "Have I upset you?"

John ignores the question.

"You," he says, grinning a little, "have forgotten about that gang."

"Gang? Oh, right…they're irrelevant."

"Irrelevant! They're the ones who've been running around doing the actual murdering and branding people!"

"Have they?"

"Haven't they?"

Sherlock leans back in his chair, so that it teeters dangerously on the two back legs, and presses the tips of his fingers together in a pyramid, closing his eyes. He answers with them still shut, John watching him, rather resigned.

"No, they're just a clever red herring…anyone can burn a symbol onto a person's skin. The killer clearly did his research."

John gapes at him.

"But…I thought this authority figure…I thought he was paying the gang to kill these people."

"Yes," Sherlock replies lazily, not bothering to open his eyes. "I thought that too, originally, but it doesn't fit. It was the branding that gave it away – what gang would openly admit to murder? They'd have more to gain by making the story public, anyway, and I don't see the Peckham Boys as particularly willing to do the dirty work of the over privileged."

John manages a little smile. It does, annoyingly, all fit together. Sherlock sits up, drops his hands into his lap, and stares at him, in a way that is quite unnerving. John concentrates, probably in vain, at arranging his face into a neutral expression.

"So that's it," John says, meeting his eyes warily. "You got it."

"Almost," Sherlock corrects him, standing up. He walks over to his map, and stares at a point on it intently, as if by sheer force of will he can disappear into it. "I need to speak to Virginia herself, find out who our puppet master is, and our killer. Then, yes."

"Are you going to tell Lestrade what you've got?"

Sherlock glances over his shoulder, his pale eyes incredulous. He makes no answer, and walks over to the kitchen. John winces at the clattering noises that ensue, and decides he doesn't really want to see what Sherlock's doing.

So, he doesn't look.


	5. Chapter 5

**No specific warnings for this chapter, yay! That seems to make a change. **

**Sorry about the slightly longer delay for this chapter, though I should warn everyone that the slight drought in chapters will probably continue for a while, because I have scarily close exams. For the moment, I hope you are content with this one. **

**Reviews are much appreciated, I'd like to know how I'm getting on :D**

The flat was silent. Completely silent, but for the sound of his own breathing, slow and calm, and the slight rustle of cloth on leather as he shifts his weight a little on the sofa. John's long gone: he left an hour ago with a smile, and a few of the buttons on his shirt done up in the wrong holes. Sherlock didn't bother pointing this out. He estimated that John would have noticed approximately 43 minutes ago anyway.

His thoughts move away, easily, from his flatmate; switching instead to images of old gunshot wounds, and the tears running down Scarlet Vlascenko's face. He frowns, and the young girl's face changes, morphing into one a decade older: the pixelated photo of Virginia Smith that John had found online. She's the image of innocence, with her natural blonde hair tumbling in soft curls down her shoulders, huge brown eyes turned upwards towards the lens of the camera. Of course, the picture was airbrushed, and Sherlock is wary of using it in any way to draw any conclusions. Airbrushing often takes away the little human aspects, the little imperfections in expression, as well as physical defects. He hates it. All for the sake of removing a few non-existent blemishes.

His thoughts fall silent. He can hear his own breathing again, and he closes his eyes. Mrs Hudson is moving around downstairs, making breakfast, moving into the lounge to put on the TV, walking back to the kitchen, yes, tripping over that stool _again_. She did it so often; Sherlock wonders why she didn't move the thing. Small, circular, three legs, probably made of pine, judging by the scrape of the legs on the floor.

The display on his phone changes: the little numbers showing the time to be 8:07. He plans to arrive at Virginia's flat at about nine. He has learnt, from extensive observation, that nine is an acceptable time in the morning to visit a person with whom you are unfamiliar. At nine, it is too late for the person to complain that it's too early for them to entertain, but if they don't have work, it is statistically most likely that they will not have any other engagements for at least an hour. Nine is too early for social gatherings.

Obviously, Virginia Smith does not have work.

He calculates that he can depart 221B in about ten minutes, but that still leaves ten minutes of lethargy. Sighing, he opens John's computer, guesses his password, and begins searching for details on the other victims.

Oh. Stupid.

He's out of the door within two minutes, laptop under his arm, a quick text fired off to John, waving one arm into the road at a passing cab. He gives the address of John's clinic, and leans back into the seat of the vehicle.

_I'll be there in ten minutes. SH._

The clinic where John Watson works is unremarkable. Built about twenty years ago, judging by the architecture, it's painted an off-white, various wilting bushes and hedges lining the short path to the door, presumably to give an air of homeliness. They needn't have bothered, Sherlock thinks. They add considerably to the atmosphere of illness, of death and dying. He doesn't like the building, he decides. It's dull, it's faintly depressing, and as such doesn't look like a place where John Watson should work.

Well, he'd rather John _didn't _work. As he'd once told Lestrade, he needed an assistant.

Sherlock strolls in, nose in the air. There's a little huddle of people sitting in the waiting area. His eyes flick over them, analysing.

Hungover. Common cold. Pregnant with the child of her partner's best friend, but thinks she has a virus. Honestly.

He makes his way over to the reception. The woman sitting there has only had three hours sleep at maximum, and she's yawning, and nodding slightly, as she surveys the waiting area. As Sherlock approaches, she attempts a welcoming smile, which is more of a grimace.

"You always feel like this after a night out," Sherlock tells her. He can understand why people might find his observations unnerving, but her glare is really unwarranted for such a mundane one as that, and he proceeds to the point. "I'm here to see Dr John Watson."

"Do you have an appointment?" she asks, glancing down at the book in front of her. "Name?"

"Sherlock Holmes," he tells her, flashing her a smile. When it becomes apparent that he does not, in fact, have an appointment, it only takes a minute to persuade her to fetch John. He lounges against the hard wood of the desk, and waits.

The woman sighs a little as she gets up, but she does so nonetheless. John appears moments later, looking a little worried.

"What's happened?" he asks, looking at Sherlock in apprehension.

"Nothing."

"Nothing?" John's eyes fall on the laptop in Sherlock's grasp, and they narrow very slightly, but he holds his tongue, waiting for Sherlock's explanation.

"I need data, John," he informs him, handing the computer over, and drawing himself up. "On all of Virginia Smith's close relatives – specifically parents, grandparents, and possibly uncles or aunts." He smiles at the shorter man's exasperated expression, and feels a faint surge of excitement run through him as he contemplates his next task. Pale eyes meet the slightly darker, and the smile blossoms into a fully fledged grin, which John returns in spite of himself. "I know you'll do admirably."

He turns and leaves without a backward glance, his mind concentrated fully on the mystery of Virginia Smith, the thus far evasive killer, and that manipulative authority, lurking behind the lights and the glamour of the TV studio.

Sherlock barely registers climbing back into the waiting cab, his subconscious just alert enough to commit the route they take to memory. He's got very strong suspicions as to the identity of the killer, but it would be illogical not to examine every possibility. Jumping to conclusions was dangerous. It was what the police tended to do, which was why innocent people were sentenced so often, or the guilty simply never brought to justice. It was why murders on the news shocked nobody. It was why people died.

It was why he could keep living.

Regardless, Sherlock Holmes was the police force's superior, and as such did not fall into the same traps. They didn't consult amateurs, and he was not about to behave like one.

He pays the driver numbly, and climbs out of the taxi, looking around. It's a very nice part of town, the kind of place that made John blanch at the rent on the flats.

A minute later, Sherlock is standing outside of the door of Virginia Smith. He notes, as he surveys the door, that she hasn't lived here for much more than a few months. The paint on it looks very new, as does the lock, when compared to the other doors. Also, there's faint evidence of heavy objects being hauled across the carpet to this door: wardrobes and shelves and the like – from the scrapings in the weave, and the kind of creases that are only created by dragging heavy furniture. Storing the information for future reference, Sherlock rings the bell. He hears it buzz inside. There's a faint yell, and hurried footsteps. The door is wrenched open.

The first thing Sherlock notices about Virginia Smith is the matching locket to Scarlet, tucked discreetly into the slight V of her shirt. He suspects it's a small rebellion against whoever is controlling her.

She's much the same as the picture John found, although Sherlock notices that the editing rather emphasises the young woman's cheekbones and lips. She's far less conventionally attractive in the flesh, but still possesses the same childlike innocence in her brown eyes. He'd almost believe it, except for the contrasting set of her mouth. The look in her eyes is a defence mechanism, long cultivated by the owner.

She looks him up and down, biting her lip.

"Do I know you?" she asks. Her voice is uncertain.

"I've come to ask you a few questions."

Her brow furrows.

"Oh." She pauses. "Are you from the media?"

She exudes sweetness, Sherlock notes, but she doesn't have the force of character to hold up an entire TV show, single handed. She'd be a passable presenter, but not executive producer. He was right.

"No."

She looks at him in a mixture of confusion and apprehension, licking her lips nervously. Sherlock doesn't stop looking at her, his gaze intense and serious, until she decides to widen the door enough to let him in. He walks in, taking a quick glance around. The door snaps shut, and she appears beside him, beckoning him through an open door just down the hallway.

"Who's this?"

She's led him into what appears to be a large office. It's very light: one whole wall taken up by a huge window. There's a table in the middle of the room, with two chairs beside it. The whole table is strewn with notes and files, and a few photos too. There's a timetable on the wall, with filming hours scrawled onto it, meetings. And, most importantly, at the table sits the source of the voice.

Oh, beautiful.

It's a man in his early fifties. He's slightly rounded, but tall nonetheless, his once fair hair almost completely grey. Sherlock imagines he would be quite intimidating if he stood up; he's about six foot eight, and very strongly built. His eyes are what grab Sherlock's attention, however, a deep brown, crinkled slightly at the sides, but nonetheless a strikingly familiar shape. Relative. And, if he's not mistaken…

"This is my dad," the young woman tells Sherlock breathlessly. Her eyes switch to her father's face, who is looking at her questioningly. "Dad, this is – "

"Sherlock Holmes. It's lovely to finally meet you."

"Me?" The man seems taken aback, and hands a large wad of paperwork to his daughter, who takes her seat next to him, and looks at it. Her eyes don't move though, she's clearly choosing to listen to the conversation in preference to working. Funny, for a young, motivated, powerful executive. "That's my Virginia people want to meet. She's the star here."

He pats his daughter on the shoulder. He's too jovial, too false. It's so obvious.

"Well, I'd imagine a father has a certain influence."

The man raises his eyebrows.

"Nothing significant," he says. "I tend to have step in and stop the wardrobe department dressing her indecently, but other than that…"

He laughs, too loudly.

If anything, Sherlock feels a stab of disappointment that it was this easy. Nonetheless, he recognises that there's one remaining point of debate, and if his suspicions are correct, then this should be fun. He lets a smile crawl onto his lips, and looks at the man across the desk, triumph in his eyes, deliberately provoking him.

"Tell me, Mr Smith, does your daughter know you've murdered the best friend of her lover?"

Silence.

"I think you've misunderstood something, Mr Holmes," the man says, his voice faltering. There's that same false joviality on the surface, but Sherlock can clearly hear the tremors in his voice. Good. He had been right. "My daughter…"

"Has been conducting a secret, lesbian relationship with fifteen year old school girl Scarlet Vlascenko for some time, as you have been aware of. You were informed first by her boyfriend, and upon hearing the information, decided it was too dangerous to allow anyone to possess such knowledge, and killed him, should anything threaten the success of _your _television programme. You put your daughter under surveillance, so that you would be aware of any person that came across the knowledge. You've killed five people, and tried to pass it off as gang violence. You didn't kill Scarlet, though, in case your daughter became aware of your actions – you knew the girl would be too scared to tell anyone anyway."

There's a stunned silence, in which Virginia looks incredulously at her father, and a pink flush crawls onto her cheeks. He's breathing heavily, Sherlock can visibly see the anger in him building up, like a vast pressure. His face is slowly turning red too, mirroring his daughter's.

"How dare you make such unfounded accusations!" he bellows, standing up, almost tipping the table over in his rage. He's a lot taller than Sherlock, and seizes him by the lapels, so that their faces are almost touching: furious red to unfazed white. The ferocity of the detective's glare seems to prevent him doing anything further.

"I can assure you that these accusations are not unfounded," Sherlock says, calmly quirking an eyebrow. "Would you _like_ me to explain myself?"

"Get. Out."

The taller man drops him, shoving him hard against the wall. Sherlock feels his frame hit the brick with surprising force, hears the plaster crack, and experiences blinding pain in the back of his head. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying hard not to black out. Forcing them open and gritting his teeth, he sees that the father has stormed out, Virginia has followed, and he is alone. The room sways and blurs, he can see grey smoke clouding his vision. It becomes apparent that departure is both vital and near impossible.

He'll never quite remember how he managed to get back to Baker Street: it's a blur of pain and trying not to throw up in the cab, each step he takes an immense effort. Every movement initiates a wave of nausea, and causes London to flicker and lurch.

He manages the stairs, just, but one step into 221B, and everything goes black. He dimly registers an impact with the floor, but then the lump on his head throbs, and he loses consciousness.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

The next feeling Sherlock is aware of, is the sensation of cool fingers in his hair, and warm breath fluttering across his face. It's nice, he's surprised to find, if unexpected. It reminds him of a time long gone, when he'd run into the house crying: crying because the other boys had called him names and pushed him over and pulled his hair. It hadn't been fair, he'd only told them what he'd observed: their parent's imminent divorce as obvious to him as if it had been scrawled across their foreheads in their disjointed handwriting. But they'd hit him, hard, pushed him to the floor until his knees dripped blood, pulled his hair until he'd screamed: and he'd run, all the way home into Mummy's arms, crying. She'd held him close, one hand holding his head close to her. He'd felt so safe.

Then, he'd got older, and realised that it didn't matter what people thought. He'd hidden his grazed knees, lied about that lump on his head, and realised that those hugs – once so comforting – were just hugs. He was no safer because of them, it wouldn't make anything better, the effect was psychological, and it wouldn't work on him. He thought he'd deleted those old memories.

"Sherlock?"

A familiar voice brought him back to the present, and he opened his eyes with a start. Not mother. John.

He realised that he was lying down: not where he had fallen, but on his back on the sofa. John's face, which was only a few inches from his own, broke into a small smile as Sherlock opened his eyes. The man radiated an overwhelming air of relief. Sherlock supposed he must have been out cold a few hours – and deep enough to ensure that he did not awake when John had hauled him from the floor by the door to the sofa.

Sherlock vaguely registered that John's hand was still in his hair, his fingers deftly exploring the lump on the back of his head. He gave a yelp of pain and sat up very fast. He wished he hadn't, but didn't want to admit this, so continued sitting there, bolt upright, swaying slightly.

"Ow," he told John, pointedly.

"What the hell happened, Sherlock?" the doctor asks him, leaning back a little, but sounding, if anything, slightly frustrated. How incredibly unfair.

"Wall."

"You banged your head on the _wall_?"

"No," Sherlock tells him, slightly waspishly. "I was pushed into a wall. There's a difference. Not this wall."

"Not…"

Sherlock glares at him.

"No, not this wall. The wall of Virginia Smith's office, in her house."

He's still sitting up, and his head is killing him, but he's very reluctant to concede defeat. Luckily, John seems to notice this, pushing him gently but firmly back into the sofa. The flicker of annoyance has been swallowed once again by that deep concern.

The remainder of the evening is almost unbearable. Sherlock answers John's questions in monosyllables, until the doctor has apparently gleaned all he wants to know about the case from him, and the room falls silent. Sherlock's head is throbbing still, but the ice John insisted on has helped. He no longer feels faint or sick, so it's an improvement, albeit a small one.

He finds an impending sense of dread building up inside him, for reasons he wouldn't care to share. He's not superstitious: he's well aware that a feeling is just a by-product of an over active imagination, and too much courting with danger, but this is more than just an itch. It's a quiet dread, a dread built not on imagination, but observation and good, logical contemplation.

He looks over at his flatmate. John Watson. Flicking idly through the TV channels, sighing, and settling down into his chair to watch the news. Oblivious John, not considering what Sherlock's dreading, not knowing, not realising. Hell, if he knew, he'd be unbearable: but that isn't why Sherlock doesn't tell him. It was the same when he went to meet Moriarty.

A small voice in his head reminds him that in that instance, things did not turn out favourably for John. Maybe he should warn him.

No. Absolutely not. It would make things a lot worse, for both of them. Sherlock is capable of handling any situation he is thrown into. He's not, after all, unfamiliar with danger, and he should not have to calculate John's reaction into every aspect of his life. It is completely irrational. It doesn't matter.

He doesn't want John to worry.

After all, Sherlock reasons, his flatmate does that enough already, and he is adamant that as a doctor, John would advise against high anxiety levels.


	6. Chapter 6

**One exam down, yay! Thought I'd celebrate by doing another chapter…because I am just that cool :D**

**I think this was originally meant to be two chapters, but my hands wouldn't STOP typing! So it's one now. I think I prefer it like this anyway.**

**Hope everyone likes, because this chapter has been a damn pain getting right, and as always I do love reviews…**

That day had started out like any other day.

John had been woken by the grating buzz of his alarm, and had swatted it, grumbling to himself, until the thing shut up. He'd let his eyelids fall shut, concentrating on the pleasant red light seeping through the skin, trying to block out the outside world. The cars outside, the talking from the street below, and the crashing and (very articulate) cursing that was Sherlock, having dropped a vial of some chemical that John really didn't want identified.

That was the first thing that wasn't quite right. No crashing.

He'd disregarded it as he dressed; trying to decide in his sleep deprived state whether it was too warm to wear a jumper. He decided not, and pulled it on as he hurried down the stairs.

Sherlock's absence was not an unusual thing – he frequently took off at ungodly hours in the morning, and at half seven in the morning, John was more inclined to feel glad that Sherlock had not taken him with him. True, the flat lacked the restless energy that was always present with the consulting detective, but there was nothing to suggest anything odd, not to John at least. The sun was shining, he'd actually managed a decent night's sleep, and there were no body parts in the fridge. The nagging feeling at Sherlock's absence had disappeared instantly, replaced by one of optimism. A grin had spread across his face, and he'd set off to work in high spirits.

Work, too, was a very positive experience, and John had been beginning to wonder what on earth he'd done right.

He had to deliver no bad news all day, and he saw no unduly uncooperative patients either: all of them very grateful and courteous. He shared a particularly lovely lunchtime with Sarah too, and he'd walked her back to her practice room in the surgery and kissed her, and she'd smiled and they'd made plans to go out somewhere nice on the weekend.

Back in the confines of his own room, he'd found he missed Sherlock's constant badgering of him, but had ignored it: administering smiles and encouragement to his remaining patients.

Then, John had returned home, and that was when things ceased to be normal.

The first thing he noticed was the long coat that the detective usually wore, hung on its hook just inside the door. His heart leapt slightly at the prospect of seeing his friend.

The second thing he noticed was absolute silence. Deathly quiet.

Sherlock wasn't there.

A frown had creased his brow as he strained to remember: had the coat been there that morning?

It was odd, he had mused, that his first response to the absence of his flatmate was slight panic, but given the situations Sherlock's work so often pulled them into, he supposed it was not entirely unwarranted. On top of that, while he realised he would never measure up to Sherlock's intellect, John Watson was by no means stupid. Sherlock rarely left the house without that coat, even in frankly ridiculous heat for it.

Perhaps born of his association with the man, and fed by his own curiosity, John had a quick search of the rest of the flat; eager to see if his theory that Sherlock had not left of his own accord was correct. However, the search did not come without a sense of mounting dread that rather ruined his pride at this small deduction.

The factor that had dispelled the last shreds of normality, was the discovery of Sherlock's shoes. John had been unwilling to peruse Sherlock's bedroom without the man's permission, and as such it had been the last place he had searched. However, finding nothing in the main body of the flat that he really thought proved anything (though no doubt there was something, had he Sherlock's power of deduction) he had turned to the door of his flatmate's room. One cautious look around said door confirmed John's suspicions: Sherlock's shoes were stashed under the end of his bed. He might on occasion leave without his coat, but not without shoes. John found himself giggling a little at the thought, the same nervous, inappropriate giggling as he and Sherlock shared at crime scenes.

The thought of the man served as a reminder to John once again that he was _not_ Sherlock, and that he should probably double check that Sherlock was nowhere obvious before making any rash decisions. He didn't, after all, know how many pairs of shoes the man owned.

"Lestrade?" He asked, urgently, as the DI answered his phone.

"Speaking." There was a pause. "John?"

"Yes. Is Sherlock with you?"

There was another pause. John heard Lestrade consult someone nearby, before answering the question.

"No, haven't seen him all day."

"Oh sh– " John balled a fist in irritation and disappointment, and sat down on the arm of the chair. When Lestrade spoke again, his voice was more hesitant.

"Everything alright?"

"Yes – yes, sorry. Thankyou."

The line went dead, and John had held the phone numbly in his hand, thinking. He was seriously considering a call to Mycroft – if _he _didn't know where Sherlock was, then they were in trouble, but he had his qualms. Firstly, he knew Sherlock would shoot him with his own gun if he knew John was involving Mycroft in their case, and secondly, he doubted the older of the Holmes' brothers would appreciate being treated like a helpline.

Well, tough.

He scrolled through past texts, looking for those regarding Andrew West, for the older Holmes' number. He was relieved he had not thought to delete them, though did wonder briefly if Mycroft would have changed his phone number by now. He might consider it unwise for it to be the same for too long.

Thankfully, this was not the case.

"Doctor Watson." The familiar, slightly clipped tones of Mycroft Holmes brought a faint stab of hope that John never thought he'd associate with the man. He wondered if Mycroft could read him as well over the phone, as he could in person. Probably.

John had suddenly realised he had no idea where to start.

"Hi – Mycroft." He paused, feeling slightly uncomfortable and intimidated, despite being unable to see the man. He was also still unsure of how to phrase his problem. "I've lost Sherlock."

"It might surprise you, John, but I have more productive ways to spend my time, than running around after my younger brother."

Mycroft's careless tone, even though John knew it existed only on the surface, had sparked a little flare of anger in his chest, and he found himself more confident, forceful.

"Do you know where he is?" John demanded, his voice rising. "When I say lost…"

"You mean of undetermined location, in all probability perilous." Mycroft finished, and even in his state of worry, John had to admire the eloquence of the Holmes' phrasing. "To answer your question – no."

John had pulled a face, and tried to answer as unemotionally as possible.

"Really?"

"I would advise against foolhardy rescue missions," Mycroft interjected sharply. John had glared at the phone, and gritted his teeth. "Your capture, as previously demonstrated, does not reflect positively on Sherlock's capacity to negotiate – it would only jeopardise his safety further."

John grimaced, rather unwilling to accept the words.

"If you require assistance…"

"No. It's fine," he finished, and had cut off the phone, his jaw set.

Damn it: his and Sherlock's bloody pride and stubbornness was going to get them killed one day.

Not today, though. Hell, not today.

John had dashed upstairs, fumbled in his drawer for a moment before procuring his gun; which he had then stashed in a pocket.

He knew where Sherlock was by then. Well, not precisely, and not for definite – he didn't possess Sherlock's arrogant confidence – but he was pretty damn sure. If Sherlock said enough upon his visit to Virginia Smith to become a victim of physical violence, then he probably revealed what he knew about the girl. For a genius, that man was unbelievably stupid. He'd been captured by the killer.

But he wasn't dead. Sherlock _bloody_ Holmes was not dead. John got the feeling he'd know, and besides, the man was so quick he had little trouble in winding anyone and everyone around his little finger. It seemed inconceivable that Sherlock was dead, an impossibility.

Therefore, the best way to save him would be to be captured himself.

He knew it was a ridiculous plan. The voice at the back of his head had taken on some of Mycroft's more endearing qualities, and reminded him of the risks in a constant monologue of his own misgivings. Their last conversation rung in his ears, and their first, too, was projected to the forefront of his mind.

'_Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think?'_

This decision, perhaps, had finally revealed to John the truth in those words, but he didn't care. He could have rung Lestrade back, had a mass of police there within the hour, and tracked down Sherlock safely, quickly, cleanly. He could have just sat in the flat, and waited for Sherlock to be brought back in the police car, complaining.

Maybe it was something he'd picked up from Sherlock, but he'd found he didn't trust the police with Sherlock's life. It was too important, and none of Scotland Yard understood that.

He could have called Mycroft back. He could trust Mycroft with Sherlock's life, he was his brother. Sherlock would have hated him for that, but he'd have been safe. John could have sat tight in 221B, and waited for Sherlock's tall, haughty frame to emerge around the doorframe, followed by a smug Mycroft.

But no. He wanted to be involved. He wanted to go and get that stupid, _stupid_ man himself. He didn't want the title of 'worried friend' hung around his neck, while others bustled around him, and he did nothing. It would have felt almost like a betrayal.

With his mind firmly made up, John picked up his discarded phone, and sent a new message to Sherlock:

_Going to the media with the Virginia Smith story. Honestly, this is going to be worth a lot, we can't pass this up. See you later. JW._

_::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::_

That brought him up to now.

John's sitting on the sofa, twisting his hands together nervously, waiting. He can feel the metal of his gun through his jacket, its reassuring weight, and he feels a little better. He finds all his senses slightly heightened, as he strains his ears for the sound of a car slowing, or footsteps on the street outside. Every time a vehicle passes the flat he sits stock still until the noise ebbs away. He's got up to look out of the window several times, and finds himself pacing back and forth, arms crossed, apprehensive.

When Mrs Hudson returns home, he catapults downstairs, not realising initially the indentity of the intruder. He helps her carry her shopping into her kitchen by way of explanation, wondering how on earth he got so jumpy.

On his ascent back to the flat, doubt begins to set in, and John wonders if he's got this all horribly wrong, and Sherlock's just gallivanting around London without explanation, as he likes to.

Well in that case, why hasn't he texted back to tell John he's an idiot, and he's going to ruin everything?

John stays there, in a state of worry and confusion, for another hour. He paces, tries to read the paper, and even checks the cupboards for body parts for something to do (nothing, just something that _might_ have been fingernails. He doesn't really want to look into it). It's very quiet: he hasn't thought to put on the television.

The silence is broken by a knocking on the door downstairs.

Checking his jacket pocket, John descends the stairs rapidly for the second time that evening, opening the door with undue force. It's a stranger this time, a man John doesn't recognise. He's tall and greying: but more important to John is what's sticking discreetly from the folds of his coat – the butt of a gun. The doctor moves his eyes from the weapon, bringing them slowly to meet the man's eyes. He swallows.

"Did you?" The man asks, brown eyes narrowed.

"Did I what?" John asks, his eyes flicking nervously to the gun, and trying to work out how long it would take him to reach his own in case of an emergency.

The man pulls him roughly out onto the street without an answer, closing the door behind them. John feels the cool metal pressed into his back as they begin to meander down the pavement.

"Did you go to the press?" His voice is low and dangerous, and John can feel the man's breath on his ear.

He breathes in, pleased the shuddering in the breath is at a minimum, but very _very _aware of the gun pressed into his back. There are a few people around, so it there's a good chance someone would see if he was shot - and he gets the feeling this killer likes to be inconspicuous, funnily - but it's still a risk he'd rather not take. But _damn it_, an image of Sherlock pops into his brain, lying on the floor with his blood staining the floor, and John grits his teeth and takes his life into his hands.

"Yes I did."

He hears the familiar 'click' of the gun at his words, and the pressure of metal on flesh increases. John feels his heart rate increase accordingly, closes his eyes for the briefest of moments, and registers that if he's going to die, at least he tried to save his friend first. He won't pretend he's not still terrified at the prospect, though.

He almost laughs, imagining Sherlock scoffing, telling him that while the gesture was admirable, it didn't actually do him any good.

However, the shot he anticipates never comes. Instead, the breathing near his ear returns, as does the growling voice of the man behind him.

"Get in the car."

John doesn't hesitate, climbing into the back of the vehicle as instructed. He has to admit, this kidnapping doesn't exactly measure up to the grandeur that Mycroft employed. It's a small, old, rather beat up red hatchback, with slightly scratchy seats. Nonetheless, John takes a seat gratefully, and tries not to show the optimism this new development gives him. He concentrates on looking scared, which his acting skills, he'll readily admit, are not really up to. He finds his fear has evaporated now his life is no longer directly on the line, and they're probably on their way to wherever Sherlock is.

They drive for about three quarters of an hour, John trying to remember the route, in case it was useful, but failing after the first few turns – left, right, left, left, another right…wait, was it left? He curses his own incompetence, and leans back into the seat, instead wondering what state Sherlock's in. It's not a pleasant train of thought, but he's hopeful that the worst he'll have to deal with are bruises and cuts, if yesterday was anything to go by. John still flatly refuses to even contemplate the idea of Sherlock being dead.

The car takes a decisive turn, causing John to lurch towards the window. He can hear the crunching of gravel under the tyres, and turns his attention outwards again. It's getting dark by now, but he can still see through the half-light a looming shape getting bigger as they pull up to it. It's an oddly familiar shape, and as the car crunches to a halt, he realises that it's a chapel. It looks old, he thinks: it's in a state of disrepair, though not a ruin – it's still an entire building. There's chunks of stone gauged out of the walls, and statues whose faces have been corroded into concave leers. To top it off, there's a graveyard too.

John sighs, and wonders why everyone has to be so overdramatic. This is getting ridiculous.

He's led towards the front doors: rotten wood that groans as he pushes them open, and then shuts behind him and the man with a dull, wet thud. John can feel the gun pressed into his back again, but it doesn't incite the same fear this time. He's far less certain that his life is actually in immediate danger. He's been allowed to live once by this man, and it gives him confidence, as he peers around in the gloom.

A faint noise catches his attention, and he forgets the ominous presence behind him for a moment, his head whipping around to the source.

"Sherlock?"

There's no answer. John hears the noise again. It's odd, like a fish slapping about on stone. John strains his eyes, desperately searching the dark for the source of it.

"John?"

The voice that replies is unmistakably Sherlock, though the doctor is slightly bemused as to why there's a note of despair mixed into the familiar tones. He feels a great wave of relief rush through him, and he hurries towards the voice, the man behind him forgotten. Heavy footsteps do follow him, but the trepidation created by them is swallowed by a crashing wave of pure relief.

A pale face, encircled with those familiar dark curls, looms out of the darkness and John grins at it, slows down a bit, and comes to rest about a foot away from his flatmate. The detective is in his pyjamas, barefoot on the flagstone floor. John meant to say something, but Sherlock cuts across him.

"You do realise that this was probably the most stupid thing you could have done?"

"You're welcome." John tells him, shifting his weight a little, a tad annoyed at Sherlock's greeting.

He's extremely surprised, therefore, when such a frosty greeting is followed by a hug; and for a few moments his arms hang rather limply at his sides. He moves them up, however, to tentatively hug Sherlock back, still rather taken aback at the action. Working through the bewilderment, the doctor part of his brain notices how incredibly cold the detective is, and he rubs his hands up and down Sherlock's back a little; both comforting and warming him up. He can feel a sharp, bony chin resting on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry John," Sherlock mumbles.

"It's fine," he reassures him, patting him a little awkwardly on the back, but Sherlock squirms away, and John can just see his lips pressed together through the dark. He looks uncharacteristically upset.

"No, it's not." Sherlock insists, grabbing John by the shoulders, and almost shaking him. The detective almost glares at John's lack of perception. "I don't know if it will be fine, John, and that terrifies me."

"Sherlock?" John asks, concerned.

"I'm sorry," he repeats, releasing John's shoulders. Maybe it's the light, but John is sure that Sherlock's pale eyes are brighter than normal, and it's beginning to scare him. John starts towards him.

The next thing he's aware of is a stabbing pain at a small point on his upper arm. He looks over at Sherlock in panic, but the man is recoiling from him. His long arms are wrapped around his torso, an expression of horror on his face, as the man whom John had forgotten swims into view. He claps Sherlock on the back, smiling, sending a jolt through the detective's thin body.

He can't make out the words for some reason, but the man says something to Sherlock. It's loud, echoing around the empty room, the joviality out of place. The booming laughter sends a searing pain through John's chest, as he understands.

His eyes search for the pale face in the blackness, and suddenly every reason why he shouldn't have befriended the man converges on his mind. He remembers his therapist, and his 'trust issues'. He remembers the outrage at her statement, and the determination that flared inside him, to prove her wrong.

He remembers stumbling across this brilliant man: the man who knew everything, who could read your life from your shoelaces, your watch, your mobile phone.

People don't trust men like that. It's unnatural.

He'd ignored that instinct, pushed it away until he didn't notice it anymore, because he thought he'd spotted a glimpse of the man underneath the machine. He'd befriended Sherlock Holmes.

Being wrong shouldn't have come as a shock, but it did, and it _hurt_.

His eyes sting to match his arm. He stands there, the soldier, defeated

He feels his body crumple, and falls to the floor.

As he lies there, there is silence, except for his own ragged breathing. But between the breaths, there's something else.

A single splash, a tiny oasis of useless salt water on the desert of cold stone.


	7. Chapter 7

**Sorry about the long wait! Exams and such. I wouldn't expect anything more until after Tuesday, but then I am DONE, and will probably end up having a complete writing binge, so I hope that's ok ;)**

**In the meantime, enjoy chapter 7...**

**Oh, and it's probably time to remind you that I do not own 'Sherlock' or any characters in it etc etc. That is the privilege of the BBC, Stephen Moffat & Mark Gatiss.**

Sherlock slowly unwinds his arms from his torso and brushes the unwelcome moisture from his lashes. He was rather unprepared for the surge of emotions that flooded him when John had entered the chapel, and feels a little ashamed at his reaction. Attributes like clinging and snivelling are not things he has ever deemed worthwhile human behaviour, and yet he had found himself hanging around the doctor's neck, doing just that.

He draws himself up, brushing the remnants of emotion to one side, and looks sideways; where he can hear the steady breathing of their captor. The man is surprised at Sherlock's compliance, he can tell – his eyes marginally widened, his mouth hanging open a fraction through his smile, beyond the realm of conscious intent.

Sherlock inches a smile onto his own features to match that of the man beside him. It's lopsided, more a leer than a smile, self-satisfied and arrogant. The gun in Mr Smith's grip is laid aside as they make eye contact, and he grasps Sherlock's hand with the newly freed fingers. His grip is slightly too firm; Sherlock can feel his own fingers being crushed together. Nonetheless, he is unsurprised to find the skin is smooth as opposed to rough – this man is not one for working with his hands; the only abuse they get is being wrapped around a pen or the trigger of a gun.

His hand is released, and Sherlock flexes his fingers slightly in discomfort. He gives the taller man a curt, businesslike nod, and makes his way over to the third occupant of the deserted chapel. As he does so, he lets that treacherous needle drop from his left hand; hearing it clatter as it hits the stone, and bounce, twice, before coming to a rest. The noise is amplified by the structure of the room, and with the noise comes a lurching pain in Sherlock's stomach. He swallows hard, and pushes the feeling away.

Already, the victim's breathing is very shallow, his temperature decreased slightly. Sherlock suspects bruising from the impact with the floor, but in this light he has no way of confirming such a thing. Also, the victim's brows are furrowed slightly; and perhaps it's the detective's imagination, his own guilt playing on his senses, but he thinks he can detect betrayal in the man's features. The pain in his stomach intensifies and twists.

Sherlock shuts his eyes for a moment, and tries to collect himself. He pushes away the pain in his stomach – merely a by-product of psychological pain, not physical, not real – and concentrates hard on the facts. The data.

Would caring about John help save him? Well, he'd do well not to make that mistake, then.

His cold logic back in place, Sherlock opens his eyes, and resumes squinting at the body through the gloom. The victim is still alive, blatantly, but if his breathing, pulse and temperature continue to deteriorate at this rate, he'll be dead within four hours. Maybe less – the effect is annoyingly inconsistent: varying from person to person. Nonetheless, Sherlock allows himself the briefest of smiles: he seems to have calculated effectively.

Examination complete, he turns again to face Virginia's father, his mind calculating, planning, re-planning.

"Reckon I can take this from here," he comments. He is careful to sound offhand, using slang he would usually avoid to put the other man at ease. He jerks a thumb behind him at John, indicating the body sprawled on the floor.

"Is he dead?" There's a certain trepidation and suspicion in the response that Sherlock is not pleased to detect. He shrugs, and grimaces.

"As good as."

Mr Smith rolls his weight onto his left leg, and contemplates Sherlock's shape through the darkness. Hard to tell at this range, but Sherlock can almost sense the doubt in his face. Unperturbed, he strides towards him, clapping an authoritative hand onto the larger man's shoulder. He lets his natural confidence and arrogance show, nonetheless keeping the adopted slang and gruff manner.

"Let me take this one off your hands," he says, removing the hand from the shoulder. "You can trust me." He raises his eyebrows significantly, and gives a little smirk, tipping his head in the direction of his flatmate. He lets a small chuckle escape his throat too, remorseless.

He has not ever felt so disgusted with himself.

The other man considers him a few seconds longer; but he does eventually seem to reason that the pros far outweigh the cons, and gives a single, curt nod.

"Good man," Sherlock tells him, beyond thankful at humanity's unfailing capacity to trust people, even when all the evidence suggested it to be a bad idea.

Oh God. He realises he's just managed to describe John. The pain in his abdomen returns with renewed strength, and this time he doesn't bother trying to repress it. He feels sick.

He and Mr Smith remain eyeball to eyeball for a few seconds longer. Then, Sherlock blinks, and starts to turn away, only to leap, in one fluid motion, past the bigger man. He lands with a faint thud on the balls of his feet, and picks the abandoned weapon from the floor, turning it, immediately, on its owner.

Sherlock almost growls in frustration at the stunned expression on the killer's face. Was _everyone_ so stupid? This one might have done his research, and he clearly had contacts in high places, but at heart he was just the same as everyone else. An idiot. Just a particularly violent one.

Nonetheless, it is still with certain satisfaction that Sherlock notes the change in the man's demeanour as soon as he is the one at gunpoint. His breathing rate increases significantly, and Sherlock can see a thin film of sweat glinting on his forehead through the dark. His hands are trembling slightly too. Apparently, when he is on the receiving end of the violence, he rather loses his domineering personality.

It's very easy to resist, the negative far outweighing the positive, but Sherlock does experience temptation: the gun loaded in his hand, the man who tried to make him murder John Watson – who might yet succeed, in fact – standing in front of him, at his mercy. He moves closer to the despised man, careful to keep the gun pointed directly at his head the entire time.

"Show me where my phone is. _Now_."

His orders are obeyed without question, the device pushed into his hand with clammy fingers. Sherlock is disgusted at the man's spinelessness. He wants Mr Smith to be the one laying on the floor, struggling for breath, every heartbeat an effort, not John. Not the man who could look down the barrel of a gun, grit his teeth and stand his ground; not the man who was prepared to be blown up for his friends; and not the man capable of living with Sherlock Holmes every day, of coping with every single thing Sherlock asked of him, and some that he didn't.

He didn't want John Watson to be lying as if dead on the floor of a derelict chapel, and he didn't want to have been the one who put him there.

He notes, vaguely, that his clinical manner has evaporated again, John having regained an identity outside that of 'the victim', and that he himself has started to display remarkable amounts of humanity.

John has that effect.

The gun stays trained on Mr Smith the entire duration that Sherlock remains inside the building, dropping only briefly from the target when he gathers his flatmate up into his arms, and begins to stagger towards the exit. His progress is slower than he'd like; and the situation is not helped by the fact that it is exceedingly hard to walk backwards carrying a fully grown man, whilst simultaneously attempting to aim a gun. Nonetheless, he makes it to the sopping wood of the doors, and barges through, sending little splinters of oak in all directions.

Night has fallen outside, and Sherlock gratefully deposits John onto the back seat of the unlocked car outside. From his journey here, he knows that even if he were to procure the keys to the vehicle, it could take up to an hour to drive John to the hospital, and he'd rather he was seen to sooner. Sherlock presses a long-fingered hand to the doctor's forehead. It's much cooler than he'd like. With a frown, he removes the hand again, unconsciously trailing his fingers across the skin for a little longer than necessary. It's soft to the touch, but he can feel the little grooves of anxiety engraved into his forehead. Under the harsh lights of the car, the betrayal in John's face is thrown into sharp relief, and it bothers Sherlock a lot more than he'd like, though he will concede the expression not to be unfounded, given the apparent situation.

He turns his attention away from the man lying lifeless on the brushed nylon of the car seat, focussing it instead on the little glowing oblong of his phone screen.

He calls Lestrade first. He's very blunt, more so than usual, disregarding the Inspector's objections; informing him of the location, and telling him in no uncertain terms that it was of the utmost importance and his presence was expected immediately – and hanging up without further elaboration.

The second call is for an ambulance. He finds himself infuriated by the cool, calm voice of the operator, determined, apparently, to speak as slowly as possible. The woman seemed unable to comprehend that she worked for the emergency services, and thus, callers generally wanted assistance as fast as possible. He stabs the end call button viciously, scowling and cursing. It's not a habit he indulges in regularly; but with John so ill, and the incompetence of London's emergency services thrown into blinding clarity, he feels the language is not unwarranted.

The least incompetent of the two, Detective Inspector Lestrade, arrives first in a blaze of flashing blue. Although his use is limited in a situation such as this, Sherlock's glad to see him, glad that he gets a moment of normalcy and sanity before the bustling and unfamiliar paramedics start interfering. Lestrade has brought only two other men: two, Sherlock is grateful to note, that he does not recognise. The DI rushes over to Sherlock immediately upon arrival, his face concerned. The two other policemen follow more slowly, allowing him and Lestrade a moment's privacy. Unusually, it's the older man that initiates the conversation.

"Are you alright?"

Considering his manner over the phone, Sherlock is surprised at the degree of gentleness and concern in Lestrade's tone. It's even more of a shock to find that he can't answer. He shifts his gaze to the man laying in the car, then looks back at Lestrade. The man seems to understand, and puts a steadying hand on Sherlock's shoulder. He asks no questions about the younger man's unconventional attire, either, and Sherlock feels his gratitude towards him intensify.

"Your serial killer's in there," Sherlock tells him, indicating the chapel behind them. Lestrade nods, and motions to the two policemen hovering uncomfortably behind him. They're both armed, Sherlock notes. Good, but probably unnecessary. He couldn't imagine the man so easily dominated putting up much of a fight against the police.

Lestrade is prudent enough to continue not to ask any questions – at present, anyway, Sherlock can see he's _dying_ to get some answers – and the pair sit companionably in silence; until that silence is broken by the screaming ambulance flashing into view. Sherlock jumps to his feet, and Lestrade follows suit, going to help his two colleagues push Mr Smith, unwillingly, into the back of the police car. He's proving more resistant than Sherlock had thought, and when he catches sight of the detective, pale and quiet, he howls.

"I trusted you!" he screams, as he's bundled out of sight. Sherlock presses his lips together, torn between despair and amusement. He allows himself a small snicker.

"Your loss," he murmurs, inaudible to all but himself. His mind turns to John, and the amusement evaporates as swiftly as it had arrived.


	8. Chapter 8

**Exams are over! This will probably mean more frequent updates, which I am very pleased about, even if no one else is, haha :D**

**Reviews are very very VERY much appreciated. I like reviews. They're awesome.**

**Oh, and a huge to thankyou to everyone who currently has this story on alerts, I am so grateful that you feel this is worth following :) **

Were he to generalise, Scotland Yard was at its best at night. No ignorant staff making sarcastic comments, nobody getting in the way and asking stupid questions, and access to any information he wanted. Well, Lestrade would deny this; but leave him alone for five minutes, and that was exactly the case.

However, generalising was a practice Sherlock generally disapproved of. This was because generalising glossed over the interesting anomalies that were generally the most exciting aspect of whatever you were generalising, and thus by doing so you were ensuring that this subject of generalisation was as dull as possible.

Actually, in this case, the anomaly was only interesting insofar as it showed that night was not always the time at which New Scotland Yard was at its best. In all other aspects, it was negative.

Firstly, Sherlock did not appreciate spending long periods of time in Lestrade's office. It usually entailed a context of very grave circumstances, in the creation of which Sherlock had played a part. Furthermore, it normally meant he was in some sort of trouble, too – and while trouble could be brilliant, trouble which ended in long lectures could not be deemed positive by any stretch. Finally, and most importantly, Lestrade's office was probably the dullest place on Earth. The most interesting thing that had ever happened in there was when one of the now ex-policewomen had (rather ill-advisedly) attempted to seduce the Detective Inspector. He could tell by the faint heel marks, and even fainter remnants of rubber soles that remained on the carpet next to the far wall, far too close together for normal, civil conversation. She had failed, clearly – there were slight indents a bit further back as she had stumbled backwards at his rebuff.

The fact that he had bothered to deduce this far into such a mundane happening was proof of the inherent dullness of the room. There was nothing in it that could be deemed even close to 'interesting'.

Despite the blatant violation of human rights in making a person spend more than five minutes in such a room, Lestrade had taken him straight back there once John had been loaded into the ambulance, and Mr Smith taken into custody, and that was where they now sat. Apparently, Sherlock had been deemed recovered enough from his ordeal to speak, because Lestrade leans back in his chair, hands behind his head and stifling a yawn, and surveys Sherlock in preparation for speech.

"Right - Sherlock," he begins, his tone having lost the sympathy it had acquired earlier. How thoughtful. "I need to know what happened. The facts: _all_ of them."

Sherlock's pride takes a small hit at Lestrade's suggestion that he would deliberately withhold important evidence. He only did that where it was necessary to avoid interference, or if he didn't have the time.

"Where from?" The boredom in his voice is only partly artificial.

"The _beginning_."

Sherlock pulls his chair back from the table a few inches, so he can rest his feet on it. They're still bare, with more than a few scrapes noticeable on the soles, from carrying John across the gravel. He leans back too, arms rested lazily by his sides. Then, with a rather pointed yawn to demonstrate his view of the futility of an exercise such as this, he finally launches into the story.

Lestrade remains silent as Sherlock talks; the only noise he makes is to acknowledge a point. It's only when Sherlock reaches the part in the story where he gets taken from 221B in the early hours of that morning that Lestrade interrupts.

"I thought you'd already sorted everything out?" he says, a little confused-sounding.

"Yes."

"So why didn't you contact me last night?"

Sherlock doesn't answer immediately. He's careful to retain his relaxed pose, but a small knot of something resembling embarrassment builds inside him, and he finds himself rather loath to answer. He had rather been hoping this point wouldn't come up.

It was because this whole fiasco, the whole John-in-hospital-having-been-poisoned-by-_him_ fiasco was entirely and unequivocally his fault. The fact that it was his fault was made worse by the fact that he had made it happen through a mistake. A simple, mundane mistake. He never made mistakes, yet at this one critical moment, he had. It was as infuriating as it was humiliating.

After about a minute of silence, Lestrade probes him for an answer.

"Sherlock?"

"Right. I forgot."

"You…?"

Sherlock glares at him, removes his feet from the table, and sits up straight.

"I don't think there's any need to linger over the point, Inspector. It's hardly of significance."

Lestrade lets out a breath, and Sherlock can see the tiniest hint of amusement playing around his lips, masked well by years of interviewing suspects, but nonetheless discernable to the trained eye. He makes a mental note that the Detective Inspector had not been pick-pocketed in a while.

"Shall I go on?"

The other man gives a brief nod, still projecting that shred of glee. How unprofessional.

"I was taken to the location that you visited earlier this evening – at gunpoint." He gives a little sigh, and rolls his eyes. "With previous victims it seems likely that they were killed instantly: but he was interested in me, he wanted to know precisely how I came by my information, in case it meant that others were aware of Virginia's little deviation."

"I'm assuming you didn't volunteer the fact that John knew too?"

Sherlock doesn't bother answering, giving the older man a look of deep disgust before returning to the tale.

"Anyway, I was able to persuade the man of my worth to his 'cause' – explaining to him how I worked out the situation and demonstrating that I was easily capable of distinguishing those who knew about her secret relationship from those who didn't – thus preventing unnecessary killing."

"A serial killer with morals." Lestrade comments lightly, a smile ghosting his features.

"Hardly. He just wanted to remain as inconspicuous as possible. Did you not hear the part about the branding?"

"Just tell me what happened, Sherlock."

Sherlock looks up, interested at his tone. Oh. He's exasperated at the constant belittling of his abilities. Sherlock might have felt bad about that, but if Lestrade was competent he wouldn't have work, so he doesn't.

"The man still demanded a token of my commitment before he would release me – I can assure you it is incredibly tedious to be held at gunpoint all day – and in the evening, an opening presented itself."

"I still don't understand how he found out John was in on his big 'secret' in the first place," Lestrade tells him, frowning.

"He sent a text," Sherlock explains, his voice half admiring, half despairing. "He'd clearly noticed my absence, and determined to come and get me - by being captured himself. Obviously, John realised the killer would have never allowed me to remain in possession of my phone."

He takes the mentioned object out of his pocket, showing Lestrade the text. The DI grimaces at the words, and looks at Sherlock once he's finished reading.

"He's good," Lestrade comments. "He rung me, must have been ten minutes before."

"He's reckl…wait – " Sherlock looks up at the man opposite him in disbelief. "He called you, and you didn't _do _anything! Why?"

"He was only asking where you were. He said everything was fine."

"And you believed him?"

"Sherlock…"

"I thought you lot were meant to _protect_ the public."

"Stop being ridiculous, Sherlock." Lestrade tells him, a rare steely edge entering his voice that indicates to Sherlock he's crossed a line. The consulting detective scowls at him from across the desk.

"If John goes as far as to actually ask for help – of any kind – then everything is blatantly not fine."

There is a very tense silence for a few minutes. Sherlock sits on one side of the table, arms crossed and fuming, while Lestrade places both elbows on the table and leans forwards, apparently determined not to concede that the police force had any part in John Watson's harm. Stupid, _stupid_, incompetent…

"Do you want me to continue?" Sherlock asks eventually.

"If you can do so without criticism of the police force." Lestrade counters. They look at each other, and the tension subsides a little. "Just go on," he says, his voice slightly warmer. The sketchy companionship that they usually share has returned, to a degree.

"The killer, stubbornly, decided that the only token of commitment that he would accept was the killing of the next victim - John. I attempted to convince him that I neither knew well or cared for him, but this only encouraged Mr Smith: he told me that it would make it all the easier. The only point I managed to negotiate was the method of murder: I insisted I could not shoot a man, and he allowed the method of poisoning. As it happened, he had the required substances…"

"Handy."

"…and I was left to sort the details."

Lestrade contemplates Sherlock over the desk.

"And there was no way you could have got yourself out of it?"

"Trust me. Not only was I locked in an impenetrable room – impenetrable, at least, with what I had, which was my bare hands and a syringe – but my only other option was to have my brains blown out. A waste, I think you'd agree, and to be honest I had hoped that John would have alerted the police before sending such a text. All I could do was make sure that the concentration of the poison was low enough that he would not be killed instantly."

Lestrade has his head in his hands by this point, and Sherlock feels he looks unnecessarily despairing.

"Are you honestly telling me that Sherlock 'I-can-do-anything' Holmes could honestly not find any other way to escape the clutches of a killer than actually poisoning his flatmate?"

"It was by far the safest option."

"Safest!" Lestrade splutters, lifting his head from his hands with an expression of disbelief. "I think John would probably disagree."

Sherlock gives Lestrade a condescending look.

"Nobody has come to any lasting damage, and I've managed to catch the man responsible for the death of five people. I think that is what most people would call a result."

The DI just shakes his head, his expression reverting to the usual defeated look that he wears around Sherlock.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

If Lestrade's office was the most boring place on the planet, Sherlock reasoned, then this hospital probably had to be the second.

He disliked the whole concept of hospitals on principle – at least the concept of hospitals from the perspective of a visitor. He was not, he would like to clarify, a psychopath who didn't actually want people to recover. No, what he disliked was the obligation, every time you set foot inside one, to wait. Endless, pointless, waiting. There were countless 'waiting rooms' – rooms designed specifically for waiting, for doing nothing. The idea that someone had deemed this a good idea was too horrific to contemplate. It was akin to torture. Even as a patient, waiting was a constituent part of the experience. Also, he was generally opposed to the whole 'crying by bedsides' idea too: fruitless exercise that it was. It was acceptable to visit a friend or family member, he supposed, for initial peace of mind, but after that he was of the opinion that a phone call would suffice, unless there was an emergency. Well, preferably a text, but as mobiles were not permitted inside a hospital…ah. That was the other reason he disliked them. No texting.

However, he had allowed Lestrade to drag him into this one, primarily because he really was interested in seeing his flatmate, mainly due to the fact that he thought John had not understood his motivation in poisoning him, and he felt their relationship would benefit from an explanation.

Also, he was worried about him. A bit.

They trail along endless corridors; the slight squeak of the DI's shoes a contrast to Sherlock's near-silent tread in his bare feet. He had flatly refused a lift back to Baker Street, pointing out that if they were going to a hospital pyjamas fit right in, and as it was night time anyway, it seemed illogical to change. He'd got a resigned sigh for his pains, but the man had put up no argument, and had followed him into a cab quite willingly.

The woman at the front desk (recently divorced, from the North judging by her accent, had moved to London to move on with her life) had directed them to a ward three floors up, and as they neared their destination, Sherlock felt a slight twinge in his gut. It wasn't nervousness, absolutely not, but he would admit it might have been slight trepidation; a small amount of doubt as to how John might react to his presence.

He and Lestrade round the final corner together, and clap eyes on one of the people Sherlock least wanted to see, and most expected he would see; on the grounds that said person seemed to enjoy showing up during situations such as these.

"Sherlock," Mycroft says, nodding stiffly in greeting, but remaining unsmiling. Sherlock gives him a contemptuous look. It's not so much that he goes out of his way to be rude to his brother, but Mycroft does have a tendency to show up where Sherlock does not want him. He's particularly reluctant to discuss this particular matter with him: Mycroft will not understand, he will criticise ceaselessly, and Sherlock would rather like to straighten things out with John before having to deal with the wrath of the 'British Government'.

"Mycroft," he responds, straightening his dressing gown slightly in an attempt to look more dignified. It's challenging to appear elegant in pyjamas next to a man in a suit ironed to within an inch of its life.

Unfortunately, it is instantly apparent that this encounter can not be got over with swiftly: Mycroft and Lestrade are exchanging niceties, shaking hands and smiling. Lestrade's is rather forced, Sherlock notices, and he can't help a little bubble of amusement raising a smile on his lips. Apparently, the detective is rather unwilling to have to deal with two Holmes's. Mycroft's is harder to read: any real sentiment hidden behind the manufactured government façade.

"I assume you wanted something?" Sherlock prompts, unwilling to linger in this corridor any longer than necessary. Mycroft looks up at his voice, turning away from Lestrade, and focussing his whole attention on his little brother.

"Yes," he agrees, smiling a little, resting both hands on his umbrella in front of him. His posture, as always, is impeccable, he is every inch the perfect official, and it's so dull. Mycroft has never grasped the concept that imperfection is what makes people. "Yes I did."

Sherlock fixes him with a hard stare, making it perfectly clear he is not prepared to endure Mycroft's usual extended use of prologues.

"Very well. I merely thought it appropriate to remind you that you don't play with people's lives as if they were one of your…experiments."

"Thankyou for your suggestion." Sherlock says, making to move, but Mycroft holds up a hand.

"I realise that Dr Watson can be overly reckless, but he does not need assistance in his demise." Mycroft pauses, and were it anyone else; Sherlock would have labelled it as hesitation. "I am merely concerned about your emotional well-being."

Silence ensues at his words, and the two brothers look at each other; eyeball to eyeball. Burning ice meets storm wrought waves; it's a glare of shared intellect and feuds, memories and knowledge, insolence contrasting with severity and concern. Despite their differences, they're infinitely similar, too much so for companionship. Sherlock knows that Mycroft means well, he always means well, but they both know that Sherlock will never, ever admit it.

The stare is broken, and Mycroft departs with only a 'good day, Inspector' to Lestrade, and no further comment to his brother. The silence he leaves behind is somewhat awkward. Sherlock feels like a small child reprimanded for wrong-doing, and is very aware that his expression and stance reflect this only too well. He tries not to scowl, succeeding only when Lestrade finally speaks. The DI's eyes meet his tentatively, before flicking towards the door of the ward.

"Shall we go in, then?"


	9. Chapter 9

**As always, I love reviews. Enjoy (:**

He was really quite comfortable. How he got where he was – and where he was exactly, he wasn't sure of either – he had no idea, but it was nice and warm. His brain was rather muddled: as he tried to remember, a few vague memories surfaced. A sharp sting, his legs unable to hold his bodyweight, laughter…then it got more fuzzy, but he could faintly recall the feeling of warm fingers against his forehead and something blue flashing against the insides of his eyelids – lights.

There was an overriding feeling that permeated all of those memories. It was strong, he could tell; it was a powerful emotion and it _hurt_.

He just couldn't quite remember what it was.

John tried to screw up his face to remember, but he couldn't quite manage the physical movement.

Oh God. Was he paralysed? He manages a twitch in one hand, and decides not. Just exhausted.

He strained his memory nonetheless, searching. The problem was that all the things that had, apparently, resulted in him being in his current situation – whatever that was – only came in tiny bursts of remembrance, like catching snatches of conversation, but not enough to understand.

A bit like listening to Sherlock when he went off on a rant that was incomprehensible to the average human being, the only discernable words being 'murder', 'idiot' and 'dull'.

John found that the feeling, whatever it was, seemed to intensify at the thought of his flatmate. It was easier to try and decide what it was when it was present, so he keeps the man in mind as he tries to decipher it.

What did Sherlock have to do with this?

He tried to look at it logically, as the detective might have done, but his brain was clouded still, and the exercise that was usually a struggle was proving completely impossible. He needed the man's cool logic, his impartiality, his distance.

Oddly, the feeling, which had been more a background throb up until now, gave a sharp jab through his chest at the thought of Sherlock's logic and distance.

Well, that didn't make sense. The detective's withdrawal from normal human interaction and feeling could be annoying at worst, but it didn't _hurt_. John was well aware that Sherlock counted him as a friend, and did not require endless professions of such friendship. His panic at the Pool had been evidence enough.

Resigned to the fact that his pitiful deductive skills were not getting him anywhere, John gave up for the present. His mind wondered. For some reason it kept coming back to the vague memory of a sharp pain in his upper arm. Stab. Stab. He tries to move his hand to touch the source of the pain, but he can't.

The memory of the feeling brings with it that unidentified emotion, and John finds himself beginning to feel frustration.

He supposes, from experience of vaccinations, that the stab in his upper arm would most likely have been a needle. Hmm. Had he been drugged then? Poisoned?

His brain is beginning to function properly again, and he remembers that he was captured by a serial killer. Poisoned was looking more likely. Why on earth was he captured by a serial killer?

Sherlock.

_Sherlock._

No.

The feeling washes over him in full force: powerful and identifiable. Betrayal. He's laying in hospital, having been poisoned by Sherlock bloody stupid, _selfish _Holmes, because he would rather poison John than risk his own neck.

John feels almost like crying. He'd been well aware that Sherlock was very capable of being selfish, but somehow he'd never thought he'd do something like this. He'd – wrongly – thought that they'd been friends. He'd trusted that man with everything. This was why he'd had 'trust issues'. It was more the fear of being let down.

It was funny, he reflected: he'd seen so much of himself in the consulting detective – the thrill of the chase, the slight removal from the rest of society, the feeling of being different. Sherlock possessed many of the same qualities as him, just more to the extreme, and John had been unable to resist the lifestyle the man offered. The manic chases, the serial killers, the excitement: all torn from the pages of wild adventure novels – it was exactly what he'd needed, becoming more important than much else, as vital as oxygen.

And when that needle had pierced his skin, he'd realised that he'd been blinded by the adventure. The idea of losing all that, of being removed from the battlefield, again, had prevented him from seeing the obvious. Sherlock was always going to let him down at some point, when John finally got in the way of his objectives. Idiot.

_Don't look like that. Almost everyone is._

Even though, in hindsight, it seems blindingly obvious, the betrayal still hurt. He had genuinely trusted Sherlock.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Very slowly, and with far more effort than he feels should be necessary for such an action, John prises open his eyelids.

He had been right, he was in a hospital. Given the circumstances, he feels okay, though his head is throbbing, and his eyes dislike the bright light pouring through a nearby window. He wishes there was less white. He's attached to various wires that he would not care to identify at present, and he realises he is no longer wearing his own clothes: instead covered in a hospital gown, and the blindingly white duvet. He screws his eyes up against the hateful glare, and when he opens them again, he becomes aware of a few more details.

Firstly, judging by the quality of the light, it's very early morning. He doesn't bother trying to work out the exact time; it feels like some kind of tribute to Sherlock. About four though, he'd guess. Damn.

He looks sideways, and the next thing he notices is something much darker; a contrast to the white of the ward. It's a relief; actually, his eyes are aching from the brightness that seems to permeate everything. His brain is still slightly clouded, and it takes a second for the _thing_ to come into focus. It's a mass of dark curls, and it's asleep across three plastic chairs, and it's in its bloody pyjamas.

John remains silent; a little confused, and watches the detective for a while. Ordinarily, he would have spoken, but the appearance of his flatmate has caused a violent surge of anger to course through him, and he thinks that a shouting match would probably be inconsiderate to the other occupants of the ward. They, after all, had not poisoned him.

However, it would seem that luck was not on his side: Sherlock chooses that moment to stir, open his eyes, and look straight at John.

Despite his background as a soldier, John Watson was not a violent man. That didn't stop him, at that moment, wanting nothing more than to roll off the bed and punch Sherlock in the face. Hard.

He wasn't doing anything: he was just lying there and _deducting_, his pale eyes scanning over John, taking him in, cataloguing him, calculating, and formulating some sort of brilliant evaluation that John really didn't want to hear. He'd tell him, all serenity and innocence, how he was angry, and the destructive nature of such an emotion.

Well, screw him.

John looks away, and flips onto his other side. He keeps his eyes open, and crosses his arms across his chest, glaring into the room. He tries not to think about punching Sherlock, because the idea is far too tempting and the man is only a few feet away.

The temptation is only made stronger when a pair of ice blue eyes appear a few inches from his. Sherlock, apparently, has scooted around the bed to continue his stupid staring contest. John flips over again, this time turning his gaze to the ceiling. The tiles are small and white and square: polystyrene with little embossed dots scattered across them. And really not very interesting.

He hears Sherlock shift again, this time to lean over him, and he snaps.

"For God's sake, Sherlock," he snarls, trying to avoid Sherlock's stare by closing his eyes. It feels stupid, so he opens them again, and uses them to glare at the man. "Can you not leave me alone?"

"Why would I do that?" The confidence in the detective's voice grates on John's nerves.

"Because you're tall and annoying and bloody selfish…and you god damn poisoned me and I want you to bloody well go away!"

He finds that he's shouting, and he feels a little guilty when he hears faint stirrings around the room. This was why he hadn't wanted to talk to Sherlock. It's a gut reaction for his eyes to slide sideways, looking guiltily at the woman in the bed beside his, who jerks awake and looks around blearily.

"Stop worrying about them, they'll go back to sleep." Sherlock tells him, picking up on the sentiment.

"Are you actively _trying_ to make me like you even less than I already do?"

There's a short pause.

"You _are _in a particularly unreasonable mood at the moment," Sherlock comments, lightly, going back to sit on the plastic chairs. This time, John turns to face him, staring at the man in disbelief and renewed anger. This time, however, he manages to keep his voice to a whisper, albeit a very aggressive one.

"Unreasonable! I am not. Being. Unreasonable."

"Wrong."

John glares at him. The detective is sitting upright on the chairs by his bed, hands clasped in his lap, an expression of rather smug superiority on his stupid face.

"Fine," John says, fighting hard not to deteriorate into yelling again. "_Fine_," he repeats, gritting his teeth, and flipping onto his back. He finds it's easier not to want to kill Sherlock if he can't see him. "How is it unreasonable to be incredibly pissed off with someone who poisoned you?" He pauses. "To put it mildly."

He hears Sherlock shift a little in his seat, but he doesn't look over, concentrating again on the little white squares on the ceiling. A few are slightly stained, and he tries to be interested in how that happened, and not in what his flatmate might be doing. Well, ex-flatmate, unless he has a very good explanation.

"It's unreasonable when the person had no choice."

"You always have a choice," John told him coldly.

He imagines an exasperated look thrown in his direction, and the desire to punch Sherlock redoubles.

It suddenly occurs to him that he has been very restrained in his attack on the man: he has not said half of what he wanted to say. He has not resorted to physical violence. He realises it's a bit of a knee-jerk reaction around the detective: his respect of him always preventing him from making negative comments, where in another person he would have. Given Sherlock's recent actions, he realises that the man no longer deserves such treatment. For once in his life, he's going to tell him _exactly _what he thinks.

"You know what?" he bursts out. "I don't want to hear your excuses, or why I'm wrong. You poisoned me to save your own bloody neck. It doesn't matter that I would have done it if you'd asked; it matters because I trusted you, and all that I ever get is criticism and mocking and now I'm lying in hospital because of you."

"Cleverly observed, Dr Watson," Sherlock tells him, and John is too angry to notice the rare bitterness in the other man's voice, or the use of his surname. "Would you like congratulations?"

"I ignored everyone's warnings, I actually admired you, I trusted you – and with anyone else I might have accepted that they never realised, but not you – I suppose I should have realised you'd just sweep me aside when I got in the way of your precious cases." He takes a breath. "It turns out they were all right, doesn't it? I was wrong again. It shouldn't come as a surprise after spending so much time with you."

His last sentence is vindictive, angry, hurt, every single emotion that had flooded him as Sherlock had attacked him in that church. He wants for his words to hurt the detective, to make Sherlock feel even a fraction as bad as he did. It's selfish, he knows, but maybe Sherlock deserves a taste of his own medicine.

"Now," he manages, his voice a little calmer. "Could you please leave me alone?"

There's a horrible silence following his outburst. He thinks he hears a sniff, and fights the urge to look. His conscience appears to have returned, and he does feel a little bad. But not bad enough to take it back. When Sherlock speaks, his voice is hard and cold and unfeeling, so much so that John becomes sure he imagined the sniff.

"If you'd used your brain, then poisoning would not have been necessary."

"Excuse me?"

He is unable to restrain himself any longer, and John shifts in the hospital bed for what feels like the hundredth time since he awoke, to look at Sherlock again.

"If you'd brought the police with you, instead of trying to rescue me alone, then any action on my part would have been unnecessary. Therefore, _John_, it's entirely your fault that you are in that hospital bed. Stop being stupid."

"I didn't poison myself!"

"No, you thought you could take on a serial killer on by yourself. That's much more sensible, I forgot."

"Oh sorry, remind me of your great plan for escaping."

"Reckless."

"Selfish!"

"You remind me of Donovan with your wide vocabulary in describing me."

"Sorry, maybe it's the poison clouding my brain – "

"Maybe you're just an _idiot_."

"Maybe you should bloody well GO AWAY."

Their argument had become rather loud and heated again, and this time the commotion had attracted a nurse. She was in her forties, looked sleepy, and was currently frowning severely at John and Sherlock. By this point in their dispute, John had sat up slightly and Sherlock had leaned forward; their faces were inches apart and they were shouting at each other. John was breathing hard, Sherlock glaring.

She pushes John back down into the mattress with a little roll of her eyes and a reproving word, and then turns to Sherlock. He flatly refuses to leave, and unfortunately at the mention of the name 'Holmes', it apparently becomes irrelevant that he is still around outside visiting hours, which John has no doubt has something to do with Mycroft. She does, however, force him to move away from John's bed: owing to the fact that he is distressing the patient, and the pair of them are waking up the other occupants of the ward. She is extremely firm – John marvels at how anyone can manage to move an angry Sherlock Holmes, but she manages it, seating him at the opposite end of the ward. John tries to sneak a look at him after she's gone again, sitting up marginally and squinting. The detective is looking straight at him. John's uncertain of the emotion on his face; perhaps it's the distance. He disregards it, lies back, closes his eyes, and drifts off within minutes.

When he wakes, later, Sherlock has gone. He's unsurprised, and given how angry he was at the man earlier, he's a little confused as to why that bothers him. According to the clock mounted on the wall (which would have been useful earlier), it's eleven in the morning, and John notices a much more welcome visitor sitting where Sherlock had been earlier that morning.

"Sarah!"

She smiles at his voice, moving over to kiss him on the cheek and smooth his covers. He returns the smile, feeling significantly less agitated. She looks lovely, if slightly worried about him.

"Sherlock told me," she tells John, sitting back down and crossing one leg over the other. John is not thrilled at the mention of the man, and completely fails at concealing it.

"Right."

"Are you alright?" she continues, the concern in her eyes very visible.

"I feel fine," he tells her, trying to conjure his smile back up, realising that Sarah is referring to his physical state, in any case. "I can't imagine I'll be here too much longer…probably just a few cautionary tests, you know."

"Yeah," she smiles, the relief showing in her eyes. "Listen, John, I'm sorry…but I've got work, you know, and you were asleep."

"I know," he tells her, squeezing her hand, thankful beyond belief for the refreshing normalcy her presence brought. "It's fine."

He leans forward to press a kiss briefly to her lips. She grins at him and leaves with a wave, promising to return later. John leans back into the mattress with what is undoubtedly a very stupid grin plastered across his face. He wonders vaguely if eleven is too late for breakfast.

After breakfast (which it is apparently permissible to eat at eleven in the morning) he has a brief chat with the doctor. He's happy for John to leave as soon as possible, though he informs him, as John had suspected, that there are still a few routine blood tests that need to be got over with.

He takes a quick trip to the toilet more for the walk than anything else. It's a relief to be able to move around, after his brief scare last night. He takes his time, meandering down the disinfected corridors with little sense of purpose. It's nice to be moving around rather than just laying in bed, although his mind does note how it's also nice just to walk for walking's sake, rather than because he has work, or a serial killer to chase, or some other ridiculous reason conjured up by Sherlock.

However, as much as he desperately wants to be out of hospital, he does wander where he's going to go when he leaves. After speaking to Sherlock the way he did, he doubts the detective would relish the idea of him turning up at the flat, and to be frank, he's not sure if he wants to go back. He's not really forgiven Sherlock, although he has reached the stage where he can think of him without wanting to kick something.

John's not really paying attention to where he's going, so it's little wonder that on the way back from the toilet he walks into someone. He mumbles a 'sorry' without really looking at the person, then does a double take, and looks back.

"Mycroft?"

"Hello, John."

"Have the Holmes family taken up residence at this particular hospital?" he asks. His tone is ruder than he would have liked, but the link to Sherlock has sparked a little stab of irritation that he was unaware still existed. "Sorry," he adds.

"I can understand your anger at Sherlock."

"Yeah," he says, unsure of how to answer the man. He's very aware of his hospital attire, and feels more intimidated than normal.

"You must understand, that to him, the fact that you survived and he caught the killer is a result – and as such, the method in which that result occurred is irrelevant."

"Sounds like him," John admits, feeling a little bad. He tries not to show it, despite knowing it to be a futile exercise around either Sherlock or Mycroft.

"He feels that because he lowered the concentration of the poison he has nothing to apologise for."

"Well he's bloody wro – wait, he did what?"

"He no doubt did not explain himself properly when you two were having your shouting match last night."

Mycroft sweeps away without further comment, leaving John standing in the corridor feeling rather foolish… and more than a little bit sorry.


	10. Chapter 10

**Final chapter! I hope you've all enjoyed this as much as I've enjoyed writing it, and will continue to do so with this one remaining chapter. As it's the end, reviews are appreciated even more than usual (which is a lot), so if you do have the time, I would love to know what you've thought.  
>And, for one last time, I don't own Sherlock or The Fray.<strong>

'_If I say who I know it just goes to show_

_You need me less than I need you_

_Take it from me we_

_Don't give sympathy_

_You can trust me trust nobody'_

It's raining. Big fat drops of water splash onto the grey slabs of the pavement, spraying upwards upon impact, leaving tiny droplets of water on his shoes. His hair is soaking too: water running out of it, down his face and into his eyes – a lone figure on a deserted street. It's quiet, but he doesn't notice, his face turning upwards towards the door of the flat in front of him, so that little streams flow down his neck, sending blossoming patterns across his shirt. He shivers.

He's been standing there for far too long, he realises as he contemplates the little number on the door: any onlooker would be puzzled as to why this man was lingering outside in the wet. He has no umbrella, and the water has long since soaked through his jumper into his shirt, the cab long since sped off.

On instinct, his hand reaches out for the handle, his eyes never leaving the little '221B' above his head. The number has become a little familiar phrase, a reminder of home, something that rolls off the tongue when anyone asks him his address: 'Oh – 221B. Baker Street.' It feels natural.

Still, John hesitates. His hand is resting on the door handle now, the cold brass stinging the flesh of his hand. The water pours faster over him, the hammering of the rain increasing in volume and speed. By now, he is soaked to the skin, and practicality overrides anything else – he lets himself in, gratefully leaning against the wall at the bottom of the stairs, and shaking his head, so that water droplets fly everywhere.

Now inside, John looks up the stairs, and the trepidation he felt outside seems a little sillier than it had then. It feels more normal now he's actually here, and he wonders vaguely if Sherlock's managed to set fire to anything in his absence.

Probably.

He takes the stairs at speed, bursting through the door of the flat with more vigour than was strictly necessary. It's very quiet, the curtains drawn, and a consulting detective sprawled across the sofa, apparently asleep, with three nicotine patches on his arm, and an expression of deep thought. Ah. Probably not asleep then.

Keeping in mind that Sherlock deeply disliked anyone interrupting him when he was thinking, and wondering briefly what he could be thinking about, John made his way quietly to the kitchen, intending to put on the kettle, and wait for Sherlock to awake from his reverie.

He tries to ignore the hurt that manifests when he realises that Sherlock is probably working on a new case, and he doesn't know about it.

"John?"

The noise, that cuts through the dead silence, makes him jump. He turns towards the source very inelegantly, stumbling as he faces the detective, whose eyes are open and fixed on him.

Sherlock's eyes might radiate interest and energy, but his voice is almost hoarse, probably from lack of sleep. The detective has propped himself up on one elbow and is squinting at John across the room. He looks unusually disorientated upon closer inspection. John had thought the expression in his eyes to be the usual inquisitiveness, but it's not. There's frustration, and possibly confusion too. His brows are furrowed, and the man is almost frowning. He's glaring at the patches on his arm with venom, as if they had personally offended him. They probably did.

After his chat with Mycroft – who, John realises now, was effectively making up for the misunderstandings caused by their combined pride – his anger towards the detective has vanished completely, replaced by concern.

"Three patch problem?" John asks, pointing at Sherlock's arm, and watching him uncertainly.

"Only three left," Sherlock corrects him, with a small smile that John returns; followed by a scowl, apparently aimed at his own forearm. The detective squeezes his eyes shut very tightly, and John almost goes over to the sofa to see if he's alright.

"And the curtains?"

"The light was annoying."

"Oh, right."

Silence falls. Sherlock stays lying on the sofa with eyes squeezed shut, John stands frozen in the kitchen, feeling useless. The silence is very different from the usual silence in 221B – which was amicable, mutual – no, this is more uncertain. Both of them, John senses, are making an effort not to offend the other, or bring up any subject that might be sensitive, and have plumped for staying silent: the events of the past days too raw to be considered safe topics.

John moves back over to the kettle; filling it with water and flicking it on just for something to do. The rain continues hammering down outside, little bullets of water pelting the concrete.

"I saw Mycroft in the hospital," John tries. He knows mention of Mycroft is never a way to put Sherlock in a good mood, but he can't think of anything to say, and the tension is unbearable.

He's got his back to the consulting detective at this point, and as such is surprised when the voice that answers comes from much closer quarters than he'd anticipated; Sherlock having moved into the kitchen, and leaned against the counter to survey his flatmate. John meets his gaze tentatively; aware that the last time they met he would have been glad for an excuse to punch the man.

"Did you?" There's a certain defensiveness in the detective's voice that doesn't belong there. His expression is hard to read.

John looks away again, banging a pair of mugs onto the counter, and throwing teabags into them much too hastily. He stays entirely concentrated on his task, eyes on the amber liquid as he adds the water, trying to pretend that he can't feel Sherlock's stare never wavering from his face. He adds the milk, only managing to look at Sherlock to pass him one of the mugs.

"You could have told me yourself," he says awkwardly, taking a sip far too quickly, resulting in a burnt tongue.

"You wouldn't have listened." Sherlock replies, setting his own tea down for the present, obviously learning from John's mistake. It's with some shame that John realises the statement is probably true.

He takes another sip, more carefully this time, but it still results in a searing pain across his tongue. Sherlock stifles a grin, and John puts the liquid to one side for the moment, too.

"I did have a gun, you know," he tells Sherlock. The detective makes no comment, and John continues. "_And, _you did still poison me. But, in a sense, I guess I should thank you."

"Likewise."

They contemplate each other for a few moments; until John feels a grin spreading irresistibly across his face, and sees his expression mirrored in the face of his flatmate. It feels natural again, and there's a sense of understanding between them.

"John," Sherlock starts uncertainly, seeming unable to gauge the reaction his words might bring. "I did know about the gun…"

John opens his mouth to speak, but his flatmate ploughs across him.

"…but the killer was far too likely to use his own in retaliation if you'd done anything: I didn't know who he might shoot." The detective's smile has vanished, replaced by an expression of anxiety, lips pressed together. "My poisoning you was the only way I could ensure you would survive, and," he grimaces, looking as though he's trying to force something out that he'd really, _really_ rather not. John is tempted to laugh, but lets him finish. "Your dying would…I mean…well it would be – not good."

He looks at John in defiance, seemingly daring him to contradict him, or mock him.

Gradually, however, his expression softens and their grins return, dissolving into companionable laughter. The scene is so familiar; John feels for the first time since entering 221B that day, that he's home.

They stand like that for a good few minutes: grinning and chuckling a little, until Sherlock turns away, crossing the flat to open the curtains. John follows more slowly, balancing the mugs of tea.

"You're drenched," Sherlock observes, flinging himself onto the sofa again and glancing over at John as he sips the tea, who's clutching his own mug in both hands.

"Not your most impressive deduction."

Sherlock huffs, lying back into the upholstery, and crossing his feet on the arm of the couch.

"So, did you sort everything out with the case?" John asks, yawning, and shaking some of the moisture out of the sleeve of his jumper.

"Yep. Killer jailed, all victims identified, and Virginia allowed to live her own life again."

"She still doing the TV show?"

"Yes, actually," Sherlock says, stretching in a way not dissimilar to a cat. "It's a little more liberal in approach now; you'll be unsurprised to hear."

John smiles.

"And what happened with her and Scarlet in the end?"

Sherlock gives him a very scathing look, rolls his eyes; and he rests his head further back into the sofa, looking distinctly bored.

"Really, John, I've told you many times that I simply do not care who is sleeping with whom."

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

It's very dark. He's tired. There is a hyperactive consulting detective harassing him as he tries to sleep.

Groaning at the disturbance, John rolls over, squinting at the display on the alarm clock. The little red numbers inform him that it's five in the morning, and he claws at the recently removed covers, trying to claim them back.

"G'way, Sherlock," he mumbles, sitting up in an attempt to reclaim the duvet. Sherlock is fully dressed: not only in his customary suit, but complete with coat, scarf and gloves, and an excited and slightly manic glint in his eye. He is holding his phone in his hand. John looks at it, and groans again.

"You're kidding," he says.

Sherlock smiles at his small observation.

"You're on good form this morning," the detective tells him, sounding slightly impressed, if surprised. "Which is why I need you to get up and dressed – now."

John scowls at him, but he's properly awake by this point. He realises that it isn't actually that dark, and that the darkness was caused by his eyes being shut. Nonetheless, it's very early, and he feels that if he can't distinguish between the inside of his own eyelids and his bedroom, he will probably be of little use to Sherlock.

Still, he likes their cases as much as his insane, insomniac flatmate, so he swings his legs off the bed obligingly.

He would admit that he preferred them when the sun had risen fully, though.

"Fine. Go away, and I will."

The detective complies, but John can feel him hovering behind the door impatiently, and tries to quell the nervous energy radiating through the wood by engaging him in conversation.

"What's the occasion?" he calls, clumsily pulling a jumper over his head, and stifling a massive yawn.

"Some rather unusual housebreaking," Sherlock replies, and John can hear the grin in his voice. "Nothing taken, but there's some kind of message left there. Hurry up."

Sherlock manages to chivvy John out of the door in less than five minutes, amidst the latter's complaints. John realises such protests fall on deaf ears, but reasons to himself that it never hurts to hope.

They're standing outside on the pavement, scouring the misty street for a cab, when Sherlock speaks again. John barely catches the words: he's blinking and shaking his head, trying to wake himself up.

"This'll be worth it," Sherlock tells him, giving a grin as a cab approaches. "Trust me."

At those last two words, John turns to face him in faint disbelief. He sees in his flatmate's eyes the realisation of the significance of what he's just uttered; seconds too late. They stand numbly in the mist, looking directly at each other, each wondering, searching for an answer.

John inhales, not moving his eyes from Sherlock's for a moment, contemplating the detective carefully; and making sure that when he speaks, both of them know exactly what he means.

Because it's important.

"Okay," John tells him.


End file.
